


The Phantom of the University

by alliaskofyou



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Greg is Firmin?, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insecure Sherlock, John is Raoul, M/M, Manipulative Moriarty, Moriarty is the Phantom, Murder, Mycroft is Andre?, Sherlock is Christine, Teenlock, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2018-08-08 04:23:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7743238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliaskofyou/pseuds/alliaskofyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera, a mystery never fully explained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lot 666

**Author's Note:**

> To all those reading this, first and foremost, thank you. I am so incredibly amazed and appreciative of the positive feedback as well as the advice individuals have provided. 
> 
> Second, I decided to post this story as I write it. I originally was going to wait until I had written all of it, but then I realized that I would never actually update it because I'm such a perfectionist!
> 
> P.S. I originally had changed what I wanted to do with this story. I desperately wanted to do a Phantom of the Opera crossover, but I feared few people would actually enjoy it. I'm ignoring any doubts now, though, and am writing "The Phantom of the University". Look at the tags to see which characters mirror which! I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Again, thank you so much! This story would not be alive without all of you! xoxo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lot 666, then: a chandelier in pieces."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> August 6, 2016: I was extremely nervous when I first began writing this fic, completely terrified. I began messaging people on tumblr, asking them to read and review the (very small) first chapter I posted. I am so grateful for all the uplifting and encouraging messages I have received, but most importantly I am grateful for my beta. They have helped me critique and guide my writing and I am so incredibly in debt to them and their amazingness. 
> 
> Check out their AO3 account! - TryingtoSribble
> 
>  

Dread rolls in John’s stomach making him want to collapse and heave, to vomit the burnt eggs Harry _graciously_ made for him this morning. He should thank her for trying to be optimistic, but John’s pessimism is so cacophonous that her positivity cannot penetrate the din.  

 

The car lurches to a stop as Harry parks the Jeep, pulling the key from the ignition. She sighs heavily and leans her head against the window. The bags beneath her eyes are heavy and dark, a sharp contrast to her clear blue irises that threaten to leak. Her weary expression reminds him of how she looked at him through the mirror last night as he attempted to stitch his wound. His fingers reach behind his head and linger over the area where the glass was once lodged. The flare of pain throws him into the memory.

 

_J_ _ohn had continuously procrastinated packing for uni and as a result was frantically tossing clothes and books into his open suitcase. John and Harry had moved in with Clara and her family, but John unfortunately did not bring all of his belongings with him. He had hoped to finish packing and leave before his father came home, but he was unsuccessful. He heard his father’s labored breaths in the doorway, but didn’t dare to turn around, not even for the harsh words that spewed from his father’s trembling, whiskey-stained lips. John’s refusal to react only fueled his father’s fury. He heard the shattering of glass before he felt the pain in his skull. The fragments fell around him, littering the floor and filling his luggage._

 

Harry notices his cringe as the dull ache intensifies with the pressure of his pointer finger. “I should have taken you to the A&E, instead of letting you play doctor.” She rolls her eyes and leans forward to inspect his handiwork.

 

John bats her hands away, scowling at her coddling. “I did a perfect job. Any physician would agree.” He reaches behind and grabs his bag out of the backseat, pulling it next to him. Harry watches him miserably. She didn’t get into any university, and sadly, John wasn’t surprised. His younger sister takes after their father, something John despises. She was beyond excited to attend university and the constant stream of rejections has only worsened her addiction, further propelling her into the “safety” of the bottle.

 

Sensing the tension, Harry attempts to lighten the mood. “Your final year. Aren’t you excited?”

 

“Not in the slightest.” John smiles slightly at her failure at small talk and opens the door. Technically the Jeep is his, but the vehicle was so battered he decided to give it to Harry as an early birthday present. The tires sag as John steps onto the pavement. He’s definitely going to have to buy her another gift.

 

She scoots across the seat, toward the passenger door. She leans toward John, once more trying to alleviate the heaviness adorning both their shoulders. “Oh come on, soon you’ll be off to bigger and better things! Medical school awaits!”

 

He laughs bitterly. “And what about you? Off to ‘bigger and better’ parties?”

 

Harry cringes and blinks wildly, the unshed tears drying before they fall.

 

John doesn’t want to snap, doesn’t want to give in to his horrible temper, the only thing he inherited from their father; but Harry’s cheery disposition and determination to act like everything is perfect, when it most definitely is not, only sours his mood.

 

“Harry,” John breathes deeply and closes his eyes against the mounting guilt. “I’m sorry. I just...I just worry. That’s all. Just because you didn’t get into university this semester, doesn’t mean you won’t the next.”  

 

John’s eyes flicker around the campus before him. “When I’m done here, you can move in with me. I’ll get a flat near the medical campus and you can find a university nearby.” John looks back at Harry and she smiles tightly. His heart drops, realizing she has already accepted her defeat.

 

“You don’t need to worry about me,” she smiles, attempting to relieve him from his blame, “I’m going to AA meetings and haven’t had more than a few bottles a day.”

 

John bites back a retort about how she smells like she has bathed in a vat of tequila. “No matter how many times you tell me not to worry about you, Harry, it only makes me worry more.”  

 

He shoulders his bag and kisses his sister. He rests both palms on her shoulders, “Are you sure Clara’s family is okay with you staying with them, just until this blows over, just until we can figure this out?”

 

“Yes, John. I’ve told you a million times. Clara’s family loves me, even more than Clara does.”

 

John smiles, his heart warms. “All right. All right. Do you remember when the court date is?” John’s eyebrow rises, doubting Harry would remember this; thankfully Clara knows.

 

Harry stalls and draws her bottom lip between her teeth. “Um…it’s the 12th? No! The 16th?”

 

John’s smile widens, laughing at his sister’s complete inability to remember dates. She forgot his birthday one year and had the audacity to blame it on him, claiming ‘I try to forget unpleasant information; it’s not my fault you’re an annoying arse.’

 

“It’s the 23rd, but nice try.” His smile drops and his concern is etched in the lines across his forehead. “In all seriousness, Harry, please, _please_ if you need anything, and I mean absolutely anything, promise me you will call.”

 

She nods, rolls her eyes, and pinches his cheek. His tongue juts out at her in annoyance. “I promise.”

 

John reaches in toward her, wrapping her in a quick, tight embrace before she can protest. He releases her reluctantly and walks backwards, not losing eye contact. He mouths ‘I’m watching you’ which results in a burst of laughter from her and a soft pang in his heart.

 

***

 

The campus looms overhead, taunting Sherlock with its inescapability. He rests his head against the cool glass and closes his eyes, a futile attempt to blink away the building terror.

 

He’s despised school ever since his peers labeled him as a _freak,_ and the insanely short amount of time it took for them to do so only solidifies his hatred of educational institutions, specifically the individuals that frequent them. His “demented ability”, or so they liked to call his perfected science, serves as a barrier between him and _normality_. Sherlock, to barricade himself from their leers and idiocy, further propelled himself into his work. His work is what is important, what keeps life from dulling his mind and, though he hates to admit it, allows him to cope with the abyss between him and the rest of the world.

 

Well, the work and his substantial drug habit, or “addiction” as Mycroft and his last therapist called it. He has tried numerous times to explain to them controlled usage is not usually fatal, and abstinence is not immortality. This, unfortunately, only causes further therapeutic sessions and extreme, suffocating supervision by Mycroft.

 

His mind is racing and he needs control. Mycroft, noticing his agitation, lifts a curious eyebrow.

 

“Are you excited little brother?”

 

“Fuck off, Mycroft.”

 

“I cannot comprehend why you are resisting so ardently, Sherlock. You need to attend university in order to pursue your interest in research. They have wonderful facilities here for you to be able to do such.”

 

“I can perform research perfectly at home, and there I would not have to deal with anyone else. Well, besides an obnoxious, pestering older brother.”

 

He ignores Mycroft’s condescending response, something along the lines of how Sherlock's latest experiment nearly set the entire house aflame, and shoves the car door open, almost hitting their chauffeur. He bitterly wishes it was Mycroft instead, wishes the door would actually collide with the insufferable git.

 

The gravel crunches beneath his feet as he sulks to the back of the vehicle. He props the boot open and heaves his luggage out onto the pavement. He looks up as Mycroft who climbs out from the car, straightens his suit, and leans on his umbrella.

 

Sherlock’s chin juts out in defiance, his shoulders square. “It’s your fault I’m here, despite my intense desire not to be, so I would greatly appreciate it if you would not attempt to converse with me.”

 

Mycroft is not much taller than Sherlock, but his condescending nature heightens the small difference, infuriating Sherlock endlessly.

 

“You act as if I am giving you a death sentence.”

 

Sherlock lifts his head to grin haughtily at his brother, “That actually sounds more amiable. Let’s do that instead.”

 

Sherlock attempts to shove his bag back into the car, but Mycroft barricades the entrance.

 

Sherlock growls and throws his carrier on the ground.

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs, as if even glancing at his younger brother is exhausting, “stop acting like a child. You know this is for the best.”

 

“You’re delusional if you honestly believe that this pathetic excuse for a learning facility will have any sort of _positive_ influence on my behavior or my intellect. We both know this is an idiotic attempt for you to exercise your authority over me.”

 

Mycroft snorts. A slight breeze flows through the space separating the brothers, the tension building in the billowing wave.

 

He glares at Mycroft, his eyes burning with anger at his brother’s lack of empathy and with the panic that seizes his chest as he glimpses the growing mass of students. He focuses on the anger, the boiling rage. It bubbles with vengeance, this he can bear; but, the rising terror that constricts his breaths and ricochets his heart around his rib cage is torturous. He scorches it in the furnace of his fury, dousing it in the rising flames. 

 

Sherlock bends and pulls his bag from the pavement, slinging it carelessly over his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll give you a reason to actually care, to realize why you shouldn’t leave me here.”

 

Mycroft’s face softens, his harsh features thin, his fatigue palpable. “Sherlock, please stay out of trouble.”

 

Sherlock sniffs harshly. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”

 

Mycroft’s shoulders wilt slightly. He taps his umbrella gently on the asphalt and turns to leave.

 

Sherlock shoulders past him, pulls his mobile from his pocket, and sends a quick text.

 

_On campus. Are you able to deliver?_

_-SH_

 

His phone chimes before he can pocket it.

 

_You know where to find me._

_-M_

 

***

 

John climbs the stairs to the second floor. His feet are lead and his legs are stone, each step is tortuous, guiding him to a world where no one knows, where no one could possibly know the heavy-weight John carries.

 

He stops at the landing and stares at the door. The bright signs promising adventure and happiness mock him. He straightens his posture, shoulders sliding into their friendly stance, and grasps the handle.

 

The hall is bright and alight with life. The first years mill about, nervously chatting and trying to display their best self. The noises make the slight throb in his head turn into pounding pain. He hides his grimace and smiles amicably at the first years, searching for his room, hoping Greg has already moved in.

 

He is so intent on the numbers that hang on the wall next to their assigned doors that he does not see the first year student trudging towards him until it is too late. The two students collide, hands desperately clinging to each other’s arms to prevent the impending fall.

 

“Blimey! Sorry mate, I wasn’t watching where I was going.” John quickly releases the student, stepping back to increase the space between them.

 

“Clearly,” The student’s slim hands run down his arms, attempting to rid himself of the unwanted contact, “Now if you’ll excuse m–”

 

“I’m John.” The introduction bursts out of his mouth before he can stop it. The student stops and gazes uncertainly at him. His silver eyes leap like lightning across John’s face, dissecting and examining, shocking the breath out of John.

 

He hesitantly grasps John’s hand, shaking it lightly. “Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock looks around John, gripping the strap of his bag ‘til his fingers turn white. He tries to maneuver himself around John, but a student jostles by them, pushing him closer to Sherlock.

 

John smiles gently, attempting to ease Sherlock’s apprehension. “Pleasure to meet you. Are you living on this floor?”

 

Sherlock nods, his fingers loosen on the straps of his bag.

 

“Me too. Well, technically I’m the RA.”

 

Sherlock gazes thoughtfully at John, eyes roaming curiously.

 

John’s cheeks burn under the powerful gaze. He begins to step aside and continue his pursuit of his room when Sherlock finally speaks.

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

John’s body, angled to leave, turns back to Sherlock. His eyes itch and his throat closes. “What?”

 

“I apologize. I didn’t know you would have such an intense reaction.” He pauses and only continues when John nods slightly. “I was wondering if your mother served in Afghanistan or Iraq.”

 

John’s eyes widen. The mention of his mother ignites the wounds, which he thought had healed, into a soft yet powerful flicker of despair. “How?” John gulps down the wave of panic. “How could you possibly kno-”

 

“You have dog tags tied to your bag. The name _Watson_ ingrained in them. It could be your father, but there’s a locket on the chain with a feminine scrawl. If I open it, I assume it will contain a picture of your mother. You had such a visceral reaction to the mention of her, indicating she is no longer alive. Since you are emotionally and physically attached to her tags, she must have died in combat. Not so long ago that the pain has dulled, but not too soon that the pain burdens every breath. I would say about 18 months ago, give or take one month.”

 

John bristles against the truth of Sherlock’s words. His fingers curl. His jaw tightens. Sherlock’s words stoke the embers lit with the mention of his mother. The rage curdles, raw and brutal. Sherlock’s eyes are blazing and eager. John breathes. Once. Twice. Loud and quick.

 

“You’re not burdened by your mother’s death, no. There’s something recent, something palpable that you are trying to mask underneath your friendliness and cheery disposition. Your sister is an alcoholic. Although you care for her deeply, you cannot stand to see her waste her life and push everyone that cares about her further away, especially her girlfriend; but, that is still not the heaviness you hide. It’s your father. He’s an alcoholic too. Abusive. Manipulative. You and your sister have finally pressed charges, but you’re afraid. Not necessarily afraid of him, but honestly who wouldn’t be. No, you’re afraid you will beco-”

 

The smack of knuckles against plush lip and angular bone silence the hall. Quiet envelops them. It suffocates the previous laughter and chokes it into gasps and yelps.

 

Sherlock’s words fall out of his mouth, as does the blood that drips from his lip, down his chin. John stares, breaths pulling and pushing, stealing the air that Sherlock forgets he needs. John brings his hand to his eyes and sees the split knuckles, their blood mixing in the craters between each knob.

 

His eyes flicker to Sherlock, the pale, blue storm calming. The exhaustion ebbs off of John and Sherlock feels each burden wave into his chest, collide with his bones.

 

A student, clearly older than the rest of the first years whistles. The shrill noise pierces the quiet and directs everyone’s gaze to him. Everyone except Sherlock and John.

 

John pushes past Sherlock, eyes leaving his to search the numbers on the wall, head pulled down, chin tight against his chest. He passes the student who was able to gain everyone’s attention. The student reaches out to grasp John’s shoulder, but John shrugs him off with a soft mumble Sherlock can’t hear.

 

The student’s face tightens in concern and watches as John enters his room and slams the door firmly. The student reluctantly turns to those awaiting his instructions.

 

“Uh, yes, hello. I’m Greg. I’m the RA on the floor above you. I was actually on my way down to your floor to talk to your RA when I saw him clock a fresher.” Greg reaches his palm to the back of his neck and rubs. 

 

He looks around and sighs. “Listen, I’m sure it is unnerving to see someone who is supposed to have authority over you behave in such a brash and aggressive way, but I-”

“I provoked him.” Sherlock blurts. He’s coming to the defense of someone who busted his lip. How hard did John hit him?

 

“Ah, yes. Okay. Thank you for your input.” Greg doesn’t hide his shock. “Still, it doesn’t make it right what John did. I will make sure to talk with him, once he’s cooled off. Everyone go back to what you were doing before. There’s no need to worry.”

 

The students reluctantly continue with their conversations, probably concerned with proper etiquette, but soon the hall is once more alive with idle chatter and prideful boasts.

 

Sherlock’s eyes follow Greg as he maneuvers through the crowd toward him. He stops where John once stood. “Are you alright? I can take you so-”

 

“I’m fine. I’ll make sure to ice the wound."

 

Greg eyes him warily.

 

“I don’t intend to press charges if that is what you’re worried about.”

 

Greg smiles slightly, but still stands in front of Sherlock. His eyes implore the truth from Sherlock.

 

“I made deductions that would have been better kept silent. As a result, John responded, harshly, but his actions were justified.” Sherlock attempts to step around Greg, but Greg grips his arm. Sherlock turns back to him. Greg's brows are crinkled, furrowed together in concern.

 

“Listen. I love John. He’s like a brother to me, but no matter what you said, you didn’t deserve,” Greg pauses and gestures toward Sherlock’s mouth, “that. Alright?”

 

Sherlock examines Greg: his graying hair, most likely genetic but also due to the stress his younger sisters give him; his calloused hands, worn from hard labor and rugby; his easy smile, directed so intentionally toward Sherlock that it feels like a secret. Sherlock nods, deciding Greg is all right.

 

***

 

Sherlock collapses onto the twin bed and drops his bag unceremoniously on the beige carpet. The plastic covering on the mattress sticks to his clammy skin, but he’s too drained to bother with his sheets. At home, his questions usually irritate Mycroft to the point of insults, but never such raw, uncontrollable anger. He isn’t sure why he continued to provoke John, and his uncertainty worries him.

 

He has always been aware and in control of his mind, but the deductions poured from his lips in a frenzy and John, like every person who has stumbled into his hurricane, curses his existence. The package he picked up, before he made an appalling fool of himself, peaks at him from underneath his socks. It beckons him. He glances at the clock on the wall. The digital red bleeds half past six.

 

He leans his upper body off the side of the bed and grasps it in his slim fingers. His eyes close, willing his mother’s disappointment from his mind. A knock at the door breaks his focus. He clutches the package desperately, willing the trespasser to leave, but the knock returns. He hides it beneath his socks and approaches the barrier.

 

“Hello.” The voice is small and sweet; it reminds Sherlock of the lilacs his mother grows in their back garden. “I…I have an ice pack. I saw him pun –” She pauses and he can practically see her close her eyes tight with apprehension. “I thought you might want to ice it, but I can ju –”

 

He pulls the door open as the speaker takes a tentative step back. Sherlock lifts an imperious eyebrow.

 

The student before him clutches her auburn cardigan tighter around her slim frame. Her light brown hair is loosely pulled back, widening her long face. Her eyes flicker between Sherlock’s, an ice pack gripped tightly in her hand. She lifts it, a silent offering. Sherlock smiles weakly and takes it from her.

 

“Hi I’m – I’m Molly. I saw him punc – I saw what happened. I just wanted to make sure you were okay, and I thought you might need that.”

 

“Um.” Sherlock pauses; shocked by her sincerity. “Thank you.”

 

She nods slightly, her hair swaying with the movement. “I’m Molly. I’ll be living across from you.” She points at the door adjacent to Sherlock’s. She bounces on her feet, rolling back and forth, heel to toe.

 

“You do biology. Do you happen to have class tomorrow morning?”

 

Her mouth opens in surprise, but she quickly closes it. Her face flushes. “How did you –”

 

Sherlock lifts the ice pack to his cut and winces as it kisses his lip. “Everyone on this floor is some type of science major, and you’re biology textbook is peaking out of your bag.” He points to her door. “Plus your door is decorated with cell bodies, DNA strands, and a skeleton.”

 

Molly grins sheepishly. “Touché.”

 

Sherlock smiles and immediately grimaces as his torn skin is stretched taut.

 

She tucks a piece of hair by her chin behind her ear. “Are you okay?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m fine. It’s just a simple cut.”

 

She squints at him, disbelief crinkling her eyebrows.

 

“Are you okay?” The words leak from Sherlock before he can catch them.

 

Her face lifts in shock. “What do you mean? Of course I’m okay. I wasn’t the one that was hit.”

 

Sherlock ignores her deflection and points at her nails. “You’ve ripped two nails just talking to me. You’ve also torn a hole into your cardigan with your incessant pulling. Hence my question: are you okay?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t know why he continues to talk with Molly when a much better distraction waits for him in his room. It’s not like she’s overtly interesting, quite bland actually. An only child striving for success so she can prove herself worthy to her parents. A biology major with aspirations to attend medical school. A shy, insecure, bright, bubbly student who has somehow forced her way into Sherlock’s evening.

 

Yet, here he is, waiting patiently for her answer as she blinks owlishly at him.

 

“I’m fine.” She glances at her torn cardigan and sighs at the small hole. “I’m just nervous you know?”

 

Sherlock hums thoughtfully. “Bit of advice, Molly. If you continue to hide behind others and allow yourself to be the props to someone else’s performance, you’ll never be the lead. You’ll never be happy. You have to make yourself known and suffer the consequences whatever they may be.”

 

Molly smiles shyly and releases her cardigan. “Coming from the guy who just got punched for opening his big mouth.”

 

Sherlock huffs, his lips quirking in a smile he tries to hide. “I did say whatever the consequences might be.”

 

Molly clucks her tongue and shakes her head. Sherlock can’t help but feel as if she is scolding him. She waves at him and heads back to her room. As she reaches the door, she turns with a gentle grin.

 

“And Sherlock?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Word of advice?” She inclines her head down the hall, toward John’s closed door. “There are better ways to get John’s attention than having him punch you.”

 

Sherlock feels his cheeks burn at her ridiculous suggestion. “Molly, stop being ridicu –”

 

“I’m sure you both could find better uses for your lips than having them split on his knuckles.” She drops a sly wink and quickly shuts her door with a yelp as Sherlock’s right shoe collides with the wood.

 

***

 

Sherlock hates lectures. His mind thrives on stimulation, on exploration of concepts, on experimentation of material, not listening to a balding, middle-aged professor drone on in a horrifically monotonous tone over subject matter Sherlock learned when he was still nursing.

 

Molly squirms beside him, constantly straightening her blouse and alternating which leg to cross over the other.

 

“Molly, if you would be so kind as to quit fidgeting.”

 

She looks up guiltily. “Sorry. I’m just ner-”

 

“Nervous. Yes, I know. The more you entertain the idea of disaster occurring the more anxious you will become, so stop imagining that the professor will walk in, spot you out of this large crowd, and immediately despise your existence.”

 

“I wasn’t thinking about that.” She unclenches her fist and clenches them once more. “But I am _now_.” She glares at him. “So thank you.”

 

“You’re welc – Ouch! What was that for?” Sherlock rubs his upper arm, the arm Molly decided to pummel with her textbook.

 

Her eyes squint with mischief as she pokes a stern finger into his chest. “Pay.” She pokes him again. Sherlock fights the urge to rub his smarting sternum. “Back.”

 

“Now, Molly, it’s not nice to hit our friends.” A student, not much taller than Molly (but much rounder) squeezes his way down the aisle toward them. He plops into the seat next to Molly, the armrests digging into his sides.

 

Molly smiles warmly at the newcomer. “Mike! I thought you said you were going to be late!”

 

“Yeah, well, John graciously cancelled practice this morning. Something about having to talk to the headmaster.”

 

Molly meets Sherlock’s concerned gaze. He drags his bottom lip between his teeth, biting hard. Molly eyes widen and her lips turn downwards ever so slightly. Sherlock wonders if she could read his mind; however, even if she can it doesn’t matter, he’s already made his decision before she can voice her disapproval.

 

“Mike, is it? Where exactly was John meeting the headmaster?”

 

***

 

“John, I’m extremely disappointed in you.”

John grips his jean-clad thighs tighter. His face burns under the stern gaze of Headmaster Taylor. “I know, ma’am. You have every right to be. I should have never have acted the way I did.”

 

His throat tightens with guilt; he swallows, trying to smother the growing anxiety. “I understand if you have to expel me from the university.” The words rush out of John, an apologetic stream of shame bursting from his lips before he can dam them.

The headmaster watches him thoughtfully. She sets her hands on the large, mahogany desk in front of her. John jumps and then scolds himself at his idiocy, his inability to stop his conditioned response to any authority figure that happens to move their hands quickly.

 

“John, I know your situation is difficult.”

 

John bites back a humorless laugh.

 

As if the headmaster could sense John’s reproach, she clears his throat. “But I cannot excuse your actions. I –”

 

The door behind John opens, breaking the building tension. A tall, lean man sporting an immaculate suit strolls in. His auburn hair, neatly combed, waves slightly as the door falls shut.

 

“Mr. Holmes, I’m sorry, I was not expecting you.” Headmaster Taylor eyes John warily. “If you would be so kind to wait outside, I am almost finished wi-”

 

“Apologies, Headmaster Taylor, but I need to speak with you. Now.” The man, Mr. Holmes, ( _why does that name sound familiar?)_ spares a glance at John. Under his piercing gaze, John feels like a butterfly, trapped beneath an inescapable bell jar.

“Very well. John, if you would wait outside. I’ll call you in when we are finished.”

 

John nods, slings his bag across his back, and stands shakily. He pulls open the door and halts. Sherlock, the student he cruelly attacked yesterday, lounges in the seat across from the secretary. He straightens when he sees John, rushing forward to close the door and pull John from the entryway.

 

“Don’t just stand there, John!” Sherlock nudges him into a seat and takes the one next to it. They sit in silence: John’s mouth opening and closing and Sherlock’s lips growing into an ever-widening smirk.

 

“What the hell is going on?” The secretary glares at the duo over his thick-rimmed glasses. John mouths an apology then turns back to Sherlock.

 

“I was in my Chemistry lecture when Mike – can’t remember his last name, wasn’t paying enough attention nor did I really care in the first place – mentioned his practice was cancelled and scheduled for a later date due to a meeting you had with the headmaster.” Sherlock pauses and takes a deep breath, seeing if John connects the missing pieces.

 

“And you’re here because?”

 

“John! Don’t you see?” John’s eyebrows only crease in response. “No, you clearly don’t. My brother occupies a minor position in the British government – meaning he is the British government – and I have simply enlisted his help in ensuring you aren’t expelled and continue your duty as an RA.”

 

John’s mouth opens and closes once more.

 

“Why are you gaping at me like a fish? Isn’t this great?” John shakes his head and Sherlock’s heart drops. He thought he was doing something nice, something John would appreciate. Why? He would have to focus on that later. So long as John stayed, the question could haunt him at a later date.

 

John blows air harshly through his nose. “But why, Sherlock? I hit you.” He gestures at Sherlock’s healing lip.

 

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but John cuts him off.

 

“Yes, you pissed me off, tremendously, but I hit you. I should have to suffer the consequences, not have them brushed aside just because you feel guilty.”

 

John stands and begins to walk back toward the door, but Sherlock grasps his wrist tightly. John grimaces and yelps quietly. He rips himself from Sherlock’s grasp and cradles his arm toward his body. His eyes are huge and vulnerable, but they quickly close off at Sherlock’s worried glance.

 

“John what –”

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“It’s clearly not nothing.” Sherlock reaches for John’s arm once more, but John steps back until he hits the wall with a resounding thud.

 

“I said it’s nothing, Sherlock.” His teeth clench, grinding out each word.

 

Sherlock’s outstretched arm hovers and finally falls. Unable to meet John’s gaze, he stares John’s clutched arm, soft plum spots peek from beneath his jumper as it inches up his wrist.

 

“John, I didn’t do this because I felt guilty. I didn’t do this because I pity you. Do us both a favor and swallow your damn pride. I am helping because I want to, because I realize the incident of yesterday is just as much my fault as it is yours. I provoked you. Your reaction was exaggerated, but understandable and I was too caught up in my deductions and cleverness to notice your obvious anger and pain.” Sherlock’s eyes flicker back to John’s that slowly soften into a quiet blue.

 

John inclines his head. “Thank you.” He releases his arm and catches Sherlock trying to inspect it.

 

“Your father.” It’s not a question.

 

John freezes then sighs resignedly, tired of keeping everything a secret, tired of acting like everything is fine. “Yes.” He tugs the sleeve of his jumper up, displaying his right arm to Sherlock. The secretary gasps loudly. Sherlock glares pointedly, promising a painful death with his stare. The secretary pales and buries his nose in the open book on his desk.

 

John’s jaw is locked tight, his lips pursed. His fingers trace the bruises lining his wrist. Sherlock steps closer and reaches for John’s hand, halting when he hovers just above the wrist. John complies, angling his wrist toward Sherlock. Sherlock’s fingers follow where John’s left and travel farther up his arm where previous violent grips and blows have turned into soft yellows and gruesome greens.

 

John smiles woefully, “It’s not as bad as it lo-”

 

“Don’t.” Sherlock’s eyes are fire; blazing with righteous anger, alight with unquenchable fury. “No one deserves this. No one. This is terrible and horrific and I don’t ever want to hear you make excuses for his horrendous behavior or allow yourself to think it could be worse.”

 

John eyes fragment and break; confusion and surprise burst through in the form of unshed tears. “Sherlock, why do you care? I’ve known you for less than 24 hours and in that span of time have hit you and then yelled at you for your authentic concern. The last thing you should be doing is helping me, caring for me. A normal person would allow me to get expelled and then form a parade to celebrate my departure.” John slowly moves his arm out of Sherlock’s grip, his lips lifting slightly at his horrible joke.

 

Sherlock scoffs. “That doe-”

 

The door opens and Sherlock’s brother departs quickly, shutting the door just as fast as he exited. He smiles firmly. “Well, Mr. Watson, It seems you are forgiven of your transgressions.”

 

The relief John feels is overwhelming as is the guilt. “Thank you so much, sir.”

 

He waves away the formality and heads toward the exit, but turns and pauses. “Sherlock, if you would be so kind as to walk me out.”

 

Sherlock scowls and prepares an angry retort, but Mycroft’s tapping umbrella silences him. He follows Mycroft’s retreating figure, but not before he throws John a sly smile. “John, I’m far from normal, some even say I have sociopathic tendencies. And I absolutely despise parades.”  

 

The door closes on John’s lively laugh. It fills Sherlock with bursts of sunlight so bright he thinks he must be glowing.

 

***

 

Mycroft watches Sherlock storm away from him and reflects on times when Sherlock willingly sought his advice, willingly sought his companionship; the times when Sherlock was so young and naïve, not that he isn’t now, and full of vibrant life, so enraptured in the world and its workings.

 

All of this before secondary school and the realization of how cruel one’s peers could be. All of this before he realized the release substances brought him, the focus they instilled in him, the obliviousness they provided for him.

 

He sighs tiredly and heads toward the street. He is unsure why Sherlock was so incredibly adamant about saving this student, John Watson, from expulsion, especially once Mycroft had learned why John Watson would be expulsed, but Sherlock’s promise to keep away from any substances forced Mycroft’s hand. Sherlock better follow through, however, or there will be consequences.

 

So wrapped up in his thoughts, Mycroft didn’t see the student rushing toward him until it was too late.

 

The student releases a myriad of curses as his bag spills its contents all over the freshly mowed grass. Mycroft knowing he should help, but, too flustered (surprisingly), only stares as the student fumbles with his belongings.

 

The student, after shoving everything into his bag, stands and stops, patting his pockets and searching his bag. Mycroft opens his mouth, with an apology ready, but is silenced as the student lurches and grabs their mobile off the ground. He quickly presses it to his ear and mutters a quick apology before delving into a list of responses to a clearly distressed teen.

 

“Yes, El, Amy is in charge. No, that does NOT mean she can hit you. Did she hit you? Why did you set her shirt on fire in the first place?! Put her on.” He pauses, obviously waiting on a phone transfer, when he locks eyes with Mycroft.

 

He places his hand over the speaker and acknowledges Mycroft. “I’m really sorry about running into you. I was so distracted.” He lifts the phone from his ear apologetically. “This is the first time my sisters are staying at the house by themselves, and, needless to say, the world is ending.”

 

The chaos on the other end of the line resumes with a shout. The student smiles ruefully at Mycroft, and then turns toward the lecture hall with an earnest attempt to convince the nanny to continue to take care of his “insufferable siblings”.

 

As Mycroft watches his retreat, he realizes he didn’t catch the man’s name, unpleasantly surprising himself that he cares to know. He glances down and sees his umbrella, which fell in the collision. Bending to pick it up, he notices a student ID card lying adjacent to the handle. He snatches the card, quickly placing it in his pocket, but not before seeing it belongs to a Gregory Lestrade.

 


	2. Think of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Let me know what you think : )

 

 

**“Take your heart back and be free.”**

 

 

Guilt gnaws at his stomach, tearing apart his insides. He promised Mummy he would starve this addiction, but the hunger builds to such intensity until gorging himself is the only way to reclaim his sanity. 

 

The thoughts swirling turbulently in his mind demand order and clarity and he will provide it. The questions rattle in his brain so loudly that the desire for the sealed vial increases tenfold. He needs this.

 

Now. 

 

Decision made, he changes direction; the dorms are now his destination. The clouds swirl menacingly overhead. The air is damp and thick with moisture. He pulls the door to the dormitory open. Cool air rushes out, drying the beading sweat that drips along his unruly curls. The steps groan as Sherlock climbs. The hallway is quiet. He throws open his door and slams it behind him. He desperately searches his bag, retrieving the needle. He kicks off his shoes and plops gracelessly onto his bed. His legs are too long for the mattress and, as a result, his feet dangle off the edge. 

 

He inserts the syringe with quiet efficiency, closing his eyes as the liquid ebbs into his bloodstream. He steeples his hands beneath his nose and closes his eyes, silently rejoicing in the clarity that ensues.

 

He doesn’t understand his willingness to save John Watson from expulsion. He had deduced that his father was abusive, and the idea of John being sent back into that environment because of an aggressive impulse to defend himself against Sherlock’s harmful words, caused Sherlock’s stomach to perform the dizziest of cartwheels. 

 

Asking  _ Mycroft,  _ of all people, to help him just proves how desperate he was to save John. 

 

But  _ why _ ?

 

First hypothesis:  mere curiosity; a fascination of the juxtaposition of the violent sport with his goal to be a doctor, a healer.

 

Second hypothesis:  astonishment at how he eased Sherlock so effortlessly out of his cynical sneer, beckoning him into his warm atmosphere with a relaxed grin and disarming him from every barrier he had ever placed.

 

Third hypothesis:  a compulsion to heal the raw wounds festering beneath, bandaged poorly by his loyalty to his sister and his compassion for others.

 

All these hypotheses are alarming and collecting them has fueled a panic in him so deep that he cannot determine the cause for such dread. There must be a way to test these hypotheses, to collect data and determine the root of his desire to avoid John Watson but draw him near all the same.

 

All these  _ feelings  _ are clouding his judgment, his ability to think clearly. He doesn’t need  _ feelings _ . He needs cold, hard facts. He growls impatiently and rises abruptly. The world is spinning and his vision is hazy. He closes his eyes once more, leaning against the cool plaster. 

 

His room is too stuffy and his heated breaths hang stagnant in the air. He opens his window and leans out, sucking in mouthfuls of the light breeze when he hears it. 

 

A soft meow. 

 

He searches the tree hovering outside his window. A calico kitten, splotches with orange, brown, and red cover her white body, perches precariously on a limb. She dangles one paw off the branch. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t think. 

 

He acts.

 

He hoists himself up and out the window, swinging onto the nearest branch. He’s three branches below the kitten and she notices him. She begins to purr so loudly Sherlock begins to wonder why no one else has heard her. “I’m coming.” He whispers reassuringly. 

 

He grasps the limb above him and pulls, dragging his lanky body up. He straddles the branch. “Two more and I’ll be there.” She licks her paw, stretches her toes, and waits patiently. 

 

Sherlock hauls himself to the next bough. She begins to move towards him, preparing to jump. “No. No, stay. Stay.” She dangles her paw teasingly. “Oi. Now you’re just being obnoxious.” Her mouth opens, something akin to a smile. She steps off the limb and falls and falls. Everything slows. Sherlock reaches frantically, seizing her warm, furry body in his thin hands. She purrs, her whole body shaking. She nudges against his face, licking his chin. Sherlock chuckles and rubs under her ear affectionately.  

 

“Sherlock Holmes, what the hell are you doing up there?” 

 

Sherlock starts and slips and falls and cushions the kitten to his chest. Fortunately, his legs withstand the sudden propulsion from the tree and latch onto the trunk he was sitting on. He hangs from the branch, blood rushing to his head, the kitten curled upright in his arm. 

 

John Watson, shirtless and sweaty leans toward him, the sun splashing his golden hair. Sherlock feels his legs weaken.

 

“Bloody hell! Are you alright?” John peers at him, worry creasing his forehead. “Is that a kitten?” 

 

The calico cries and squirms out of Sherlock’s tight embrace and weaves herself around John’s ankles. 

 

“She was,” Sherlock coughs, attempting to catch his breath, “trapped in the tree.” He attempts to rise, but falls back, swinging back and forth, upside down.  

 

“Christ. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.” John steps closer, trying to avoid the kitten that is pouncing on his shoelace. “Let me help you down.” He wraps his arms under Sherlock’s armpits and around his chest. Sherlock wants to stay nestled there forever. 

 

John gently drags him off the limb, Sherlock’s legs unhook from their tight embrace of the branch. John steadies Sherlock and they both look up. Their faces are dangerously close. 

 

The kitten begins to climb John’s leg, claws scratching and pulling skin, the shoelace pulling taut in her tiny, smiling mouth. He averts his gaze from Sherlock’s and smiles downward. “Come here, you rascal.” The kitten yelps as John pulls her up to his eye level. His nose rubs against her wet, pink one. Her grating tongue licks his cheek. 

 

Sherlock glowers at the kitten, embarrassed by his jealousy of a silly feline. He shakes his fingers through his hair, rustling the dark curls. “I opened my window and heard her in the tree.” 

 

John grins genuinely, not forced pleasantry but pure amusement. “So you decided to heave yourself into the tree to save her?”

 

Sherlock huffs dramatically. “It was the quickest and easiest way.”

 

“Of course.” John lips lift lightly. The reason for his run in the middle of this scorching heat did not alleviate his stress like intended, thus it takes more energy than he has to smile. 

 

Sherlock ducks his head, diverting his eyes from the glorious chest before him, and curses the heat for convincing John to run shirtless. 

 

“So you don’t know who the owner is?”

 

“No.” Sherlock pauses, his fingers fidget with his sleeves. “I was wondering…”

 

John reads the question in Sherlock’s eyes and his eyes widen. “No.”

 

“Just for a while. Just until we can find her owner.” Mummy never let him have a pet. 

 

John rolls his head back. It cracks and groans. “Sherlock, we can’t keep a cat in the dorm. The welfare officer would have my head!”

 

“He doesn’t have to know.” Sherlock stomps his foot. John raises an eyebrow. Sherlock has the decency to be embarrassed. 

 

“Please.” Sherlock’s bottom lip juts out and Sherlock can see John’s resolve weakening. 

“I’m going to regret this, but…” He chances one last look at Sherlock, “fine.”

 

Sherlock yelps excitedly and grabs the kitten from John’s grasp. His fingers tread lightly against John’s calloused hands. Sherlock’s fingers buzz with the contact, energized by the electricity. “Do you hear that, Redbeard? You can stay!” 

 

Redbeard’s ears perk at the new name.

 

“Redbeard, like the pirate?”

 

“She likes it.” Sherlock scratches beneath Redbeard’s chin, she extends her throat, allowing him more access. The wind shakes Sherlock’s curls, dragging them across his forehead. Redbeard pulls on them with her teeth.

 

“Problem?”

 

John smiles so softly that Sherlock barely catches it, but he does and he never wants to let it go. “No, not at all.” He exhales and reaches out, swiping his hand down Redbeard’s thin body. Sherlock Holmes, you are going to be the death of me.” 

 

Sherlock’s head flings up, a mischievous grin spreading across his sunlit face. 

 

John bites harshly at his chapped lips, which are made even drier by the wind that has not relented. “You, uh, got pulled away before I had a proper chance to thank you for intervening yesterday.”

 

Sherlock waves his free hand in the air, swatting away John’s gratitude. “Like I said, it’s fine.”

 

“Right, but I feel like I need to make it up to you.”

 

Sherlock gives John a curious look. “There is no need to feel obliged. If you must, consider Redbeard as that favor.”

 

John smiles, and ducks his head sheepishly, rubbing Redbeard’s paw to distract himself.

 

“Well, um, good, I - I don’t feel obliged necessarily. I just - Would you like to go to dinner? Tonight?”

 

Sherlock freezes. “With you?” 

 

The soft grin reappears, but this time an even softer chuckle escapes. “Yes, with me.”

 

His hand stills. Redbeard whines impatiently at the lack of attention. His mind whirls with unanswerable questions, but John, mistaking his confusion for reluctance, begins to retract his offer. “I mean if you don’t want to, you definitely don’t have to. I jus-”

 

“What time do we leave?”

 

John blinks slowly at Sherlock before he smiles so brightly Sherlock fears he might need sunglasses. 

 

“I’ll just take a quick shower. I’ll pick you up in 15?”

 

Sherlock nods his approval, and John turns happily (how is it even possible to turn happily?) toward his room. 

 

He tears himself from his appreciative analysis of John’s backside and follows John’s retreating form into their dorm. 

 

 

 

***

 

John stands in the shower. The scalding water burns his skin, but it’s relaxing and therapeutic. The steam clouds the mirror and moisture drips from the walls. He inclines his head back, letting the water pelt his eyes and forehead before dribbling down his cheeks and lips. John feels like he can finally breathe, the stress leaking out of his pores and into the fog.

 

John thinks best when he separates his thoughts; when he compartmentalizes them. He attempts to do just that, but this time he has no control over the organization process. His thoughts are thrown, strewn along the floor. The neatly filed drawers fall over, spilling their contents, making it impossible to form a coherent thought. 

 

Except for one thought that hasn't left, that John suspects caused the upheaval. 

 

Sherlock fills every corner of his mind with his sharp tongue that blurts quick wit, with his dark curls that John wants to tangle his fingers in, with his bowed lip that John wants to… John lays his head against the damp shower wall. This is ridiculous. He’s never asked someone out so quickly, especially if he punched said individual no more than a day ago. What was he thinking? The answer: he wasn’t.

 

He turns off the shower. Stepping on the plush rug, John shakes his hair, dries his chest and arms, and wraps the fluffy pink towel around his waist. He laughs quietly at the color of his towel. The memory of Harry’s horrified face fills his mind. At first, she had been enraged that he forgot to separate the whites and reds, but then the anger burst into uncontrollable laughter with both siblings grasping each other for support. His heart clenches. He misses her and the fact that she hasn’t answered any of his calls or texts turns his stomach. 

 

He grabs the hand towel on the counter and wipes a circle of dew off the mirror. His blurred reflection blinks back at him. His exhaustion darkens the bags hanging below his eyes, tension evident in his forehead and taut shoulders. His whole life he’s felt trapped. His home life has always been a nightmare, but he could always handle it. He could always take the abuse. He would gladly withstand any harm if it meant protecting Harry from it; but for another year, he is unable to be the barrier, to be her armor. It’s killing him. 

 

But ever since his encounter with Sherlock, he can’t help but feel as if something in his life has shifted; as if the clouds have dissipated, if only for a moment, to reveal a striking, luminescent moon that lights his life in a soft, comforting glow. 

 

He wanders out of the bathroom, steam billowing behind him. His mind flickers back to Sherlock hanging from the tree, cradling the frightened kitten in the crook of his arm. He wanted to refuse Sherlock’s plea, he needed to. He can’t let a student keep an animal in his dorm, but he let Sherlock and his sharp cheekbones and upturned collar convince him to do exactly what he shouldn’t. 

 

There’s a brief knock on his door, a gentle, reluctant tap. John assumes it’s some first year, thinking it would be fun to knock on the RA’s door; yet, the door pulses once more and John hears a subtle purr. John tries to be mad, but the thrill of seeing Sherlock once more – or, uh, Redbeard, he means Redbeard- propels him to open the door. 

 

***

 

Sherlock’s head is turned, scouting the hallway to ensure secrecy. He shifts toward the door when he hears it open and then stops. Everything stops: his breathing, his heart, his mind. Even Redbeard quiet purr stutters. 

 

John is shirtless with a pink towel wrapped, not tightly enough, around his waist. The towel hangs just below his navel and Sherlock is impressed with his ability to stand upright. He’s not so impressed, however, with his ability to speak. 

 

“Uh…um.  John, um, you…um.” Redbeard gazes bemusedly at him, enjoying his inability to function. 

 

John looks down at his attire and reddens, the color spreading down his neck. “Oh, shit. Sorry. I, uh, just got out of the shower. Give me a second.” The door slams in Sherlock’s face and he is thankful for the brief reprieve. He didn’t know how much longer he would be able to stare before he melted. 

 

Redbeard mews thoughtfully at him and it’s like he can hear her mocking him.  _ Like what you saw?  _ He scowls at her innocent face. “Oh, shut up.”  

 

The door flings back open with a slightly out of breath, but properly dressed, John standing in the entrance. He eyes Sherlock expectantly, recalling he told Sherlock the would come to him, not the other way around. 

 

Sherlock smiles awkwardly, his cheeks bright red against his pale complexion. “I realize you said you would come and “pick me up” - which the wording you used was quite ludicrous in the first place since you are not literally “picking me up” - but it has passed the fifteen-minute mark and I -”

 

“And you thought I backed out?” John smirks as Sherlock’s cheeks redden even more. 

 

“No.” Sherlock scowls indignantly and steps back from John. “I was ju-”

 

“I was kidding.” John gently places his hand on Sherlock’s bicep and inclines his head toward Redbeard. “Why is she out in the open? We need to keep her a secret, and this isn’t exactly doing that.” 

 

“We were bored.”

 

“Bored?”

 

“Yes. We were tired of waiting for you.”

 

“So you decided to risk losing Redbeard in order to cure your boredom and to find out what was taking me so long?”

 

“Well, when you put it that way - ”

 

John rolls his eyes and drags Sherlock by his arm to his room. “Come on, put Redbeard in your room, and let’s go get some dinner. I have a nice place picked out.”

 

Sherlock scrunches his nose at John’s offer. “Actually, I’ve got a better place in mind.”

 

***

 

The diner is eerily quiet. Only when Sherlock slides into the building, holding the door wide for John to enter, does John realize how late it actually is.

 

"Sherlock, the store is about to close." John lingers in the doorway. "Maybe we should go somewhere else that is open longer."

 

Sherlock simply smiles and shakes his head, opening the door wider. "Come on. We're a special case." 

 

"Sherl-"

 

"Sherlock!" A heavyset man, adorned in a white shirt with a black apron tied tightly around his waist, bellows as he waves his arms at the duo lingering in the entryway. 

 

"Hello, Angelo." Sherlock beckons John in once more. 

 

"Come in, come in! I wasn't expecting to see you tonight.”

 

John grins sheepishly and adds, "You seem to be closed, and I don't want to inconvenience you." He begins to retreat into the cool night, but Sherlock drags him back  into the restaurant.

 

"Nonsense!" Angelo's boisterous voice echoes against the vacancy of the diner, he pivots, grasps two menus in his chunky fingers, and beckons them. Sherlock falls into stride beside Angelo, John drifts behind. 

 

Lights hang at varying heights over the few booths at the front of the restaurant, but as the group continues down the aisle, the lights are sparse and dim, as if the tension between Sherlock and John transcends into electrical wiring. 

 

They approach a small booth in the far reaches of the diner, and Angelo steps aside, gesturing widely, his sausage fingers groping the air. "A private booth for a romantic night." He drops a wink, or at least attempts to as both his eyes awkwardly flutter, causing John to incredulously swirl his head towards Sherlock who is suppressing a smirk. 

 

"Thank you, Angelo. The usual will be fine." Angelo nods at the request and stumbles towards the kitchen. John, still gaping at Sherlock, tilts his head curiously, but Sherlock ignores the silent, unanswered questions swirling in the air around them. The questions that have grown exponentially since the two students have met and only serve to clog the air around them, making it increasingly hard to breathe. The questions that have been slamming against John's skull, provoking an incurable headache and an insatiable hunger for answers that he desperately searches for in his incoherent thoughts. 

 

Sherlock slides into the booth and lifts his eyebrow, indicating John should sit as well; and so he does, knees clumsily bump together.

 

Sherlock steeples his hands against his lips, underneath his nose and rests his elbows on the table, as if deeply analyzing John’s thoughts; which John assumes could very well be the case. John's arms cross instinctively against his chest.

 

"How did you get this planned in fifteen minutes?" 

 

“Angelo and I are friends. I helped clear his name?”

 

“Of what?”

 

“Murder.”

 

John gapes at him. “Murder?”

 

“Yes. He was the main suspect in a triple homicide and I proved his innocence - well in somewhat innocence - by providing evidence that he was housebreaking on a different side of town.”

 

“Amazing.”

 

Sherlock’s insides ignite at the praise. “You didn’t seem so amazed when I deduced you the other day.”

 

John stills and Sherlock thinks he’s ruined whatever  _ this  _ is, but John lets loose a bright chuckle and Sherlock warms at the sound. 

 

“Very true. I - I found it amazing, just not kind.”

 

“Yes, some say I lack tact.”

 

Another laugh.

 

“I might have to agree.”

 

“I guess I’ll just have to prove you wrong.”

 

Angelo appears next to them and places their plates in front of them with an unnecessary flourish. “Dinner is served.” 

 

John hasn’t eaten much all day, when’s he distracted and anxious he tends to forget the necessity of eating. He eagerly digs into the meal before him, completely disregarding table manners. He does not realize his atrocious etiquette until he hears a snicker squeeze through Sherlock’s pursed lips. John ducks his head, attempting to swallow the large bite of meat he, not so graciously, forces into his mouth. 

 

John shoves the chewed chicken to the left side of his mouth and speaks from his right, “Whut ar u laffin’ at?” The muffled vowels and consonants spill from his open lips, as do pieces of ground poultry. 

 

Sherlock laughs deeply. “Nothing in particular.” 

 

John rolls his eyes, pokes at Sherlock’s plate with his fork, and swallows. “Are you not going to eat?” 

 

Sherlock shakes his head and nudges his cooling plate toward John. John hesitates, knowing he should insist Sherlock eat; but maybe he ate before he came to see John. That poor logic is convincing enough for John to dump the contents of Sherlock’s plate onto his own. Sherlock rolls his eyes playfully. 

 

“Oi.  I’m starving.” John defends with a guilty shrug off his broad shoulders.  Sherlock notices the muscles rippling beneath. 

 

“Clearly.”

 

John kicks Sherlock’s shin (hard enough to chide him but soft enough to still be playful). Sherlock rolls his eyes in mock annoyance and opens his mouth to speak but his voice is drowned out by the telly above them steadily increasing in volume.

 

Angelo emerges from the kitchen, clutching the remote in his hand. Sherlock scowls. He shrugs sheepishly but gestures with the remote, “I thought you would want to see this.”

 

John lifts his eyes and Sherlock angles his head toward the news report. 

 

“A student found dead at the University of London. Investigations are underway, but all students are advised to stay in their dorms. Students currently not on campus are warned to stay away until further notice.” 

 

A satisfied smirk etches its way across Sherlock’s face. He jumps from the booth, shakes Angelo’s hand eagerly and bounds toward the exit. “This is brilliant!”

 

John completely bewildered, fumbles for some cash and throws it haphazardly on the counter.  “Sherlock, what the hell are you going on about?” 

 

“John!” Sherlock is offended that John does not understand the wonderful turn of events.  “There’s been a murder!” Sherlock claps his hands excitedly together. 

 

John stares warily. “Uh, yes. Why are you so excited?”  

 

It’s Sherlock’s turn to be incredulous. “Why would I not be?” Sherlock throws open the door and disappears into the night. 

 

John pushes his cold chicken toward his rice. He can’t help but feel slightly offended that Sherlock would willingly leave his presence, especially for a dead body. 

 

The bell on top of the entrance chimes. John's eyes dart up. Sherlock lingers in the doorway.  “You’ve volunteered at Bart’s for almost four years.  In the morgue, correct?”

 

John doesn’t even pretend to be astonished at Sherlock’s knowledge. His head inclines slightly. 

 

“You’ve seen death. Examined it. Analyzed it.” 

 

John dips his head, staring at Sherlock solemnly. “Yes. Enough for a lifetime.” 

 

Sherlock’s lip quirks. “Would you like to see some more?”

 

“Oh, god yes.”  John heaves himself out of the booth and strides to the door where Sherlock has it propped open for him. John ducks underneath his arm and they depart the restaurant and the cold, forgotten food. 

 

***

 

The body lies flat on the ground as if he is sleeping; but he’s not sleeping, he’s dead. Sherlock’s blood thickens and slows. His senses heighten as they approach the yellow tape. The crowd is growing, despite the constant efforts to remove the students. Sherlock inches closer; John follows silently behind him. He can’t inspect the body from this distance, but he can make vague conclusions.

 

Blood and brain ooze out of the student’s skull, dying the pavement a sickly brown. His body is crumpled in a heap, curled in on itself as if tucked in bed. His arms are splayed out as if he’s hugging the pavement. His legs are twisted and bent. The window from which he fell is shattered, the fragments coated in his blood. Wails chill the already cool night as a woman, his girlfriend, weeps. A few cops attempt to console her but to no avail. Sherlock pauses at the edge of the tape, fingering the slim plastic between his fingers, debating his next move. 

 

Murmurs of suicide echo throughout the crowd and Sherlock can’t help but close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance. 

 

“How do you know it’s not suicide?” John tugs on Sherlock’s sleeve, pulling Sherlock’s ear toward him. 

 

Sherlock had not realized he had vocalized his doubts, but whispers to John nevertheless. “You really don’t know?”

 

John’s eyes narrow at Sherlock, silencing any arrogance Sherlock felt building. “No, I don’t. So, if you wouldn’t mind…” 

 

“Look at the window.” Sherlock points at the shattered glass.  “Why would he throw himself through the glass?  Why not open the window first?” 

 

John nods thoughtfully and he replies. “Plus, there are clear signs of a struggle. Look at the bloodied glass on both sides of the window.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes follow John’s finger down both sides of the window. Bloodied streaks that are separated by spaces, approximately the size that exists between one’s  fingers, are smeared on the brick surrounding the window.

 

“Correct.” His eyes twinkle at John; alight with a fire so consuming that it eats all the surrounding oxygen. John finds it increasingly hard to breathe.  

 

The cool air howls, mourning the loss of life.  Sherlock finds it hard to concentrate with the persistent annoyances of excited chatter and fearful exclamations. He lifts himself on the tips of his toes and his already tall figure grows taller. He can't get any closer. Too many people. His eyes focus on the window once more; most of the officers and paramedics are stationed around the body in order to collect evidence but also keep the students at bay. He can only see one person in the student’s room where he fell. Perfect. He grabs John's wrist and strides toward the entrance that, luckily, is unattended. John emits a soft exclamation of surprise as Sherlock bolts away from the edge of the tape dragging John along behind him.

 

"Sherlock!" John attempts to whisper, but his alarmed tone causes a handful of students to eye the duo suspiciously.

 

"Shh!" Sherlock presses his finger against his lips. He continues toward his destination, the doors to the dorm approaching. The grass crunches beneath their hurried steps. His mind whirls with the possibilities that wait in the room above.

 

"Sherlock!" John whispers, once more failing at silence.

 

Fortunately, they are far enough away from the crowd that John hasn't drawn any more attention to them. Sherlock whirls around, coat floating around his body. John admires the grace and flair that Sherlock adds to such mundane mannerisms. Sherlock's finger presses gently yet firmly against John's lips. 

 

"You have to be quiet if we are going to sneak inside." John's smile widens and Sherlock pulls his finger away from his kissable lips, alarmed by how quickly he is becoming comfortable around John. "Now if you're done interrupting…”

 

He turns and pushes through the entrance to the dorms. John struggles to keep pace with Sherlock’s long strides. Their steps echo off the linoleum, eerily filling the corridor. Their shadows dance and intertwine along the walls, distorted by the flyers and banners advertising society meetings and call-outs. They approach the stairwell. Sherlock flings the door open, taking the steps two at a time.

 

John becomes impatient, hungry for insight. “Sherlock, what exactly are we doing?”

 

Sherlock walks through the entrance to the corridor where the student lives, or used to live. He counts the doorways leading to the end of the hall to his room. Sherlock can see the dim light shining into the hallway. The rest of the rooms have been temporarily evacuated, they’re shut and silent. 

 

“Sherlock!” John grabs the back of Sherlock’s coat, spinning him around to face him. Sherlock stumbles, colliding with John’s chest. Sherlock inhales deeply. A flustered laugh escapes John’s lovely mouth. “I just want to know where we’re going.”

 

Sherlock reddens, steps back from John, and refuses to meet his sparkling eyes. “Right, uh, well, we are going to the victim’s room to see if there is any evidence we can obtain from there. From what I could see in the courtyard, it seems there is only one officer that is stationed up here. I believe we can distract him long enough to enter the room.” Sherlock's eyes dart along the walls, catching brief glimpses of names posted to the doors, indicating who lives in each room.

 

John chuckles. “Right. Well, lead the way.” He points down the hall and Sherlock nods robotically, straightening his coat.

 

Their pace slows as they approach the door. A soft voice filters down the corridor as they enter Anderson’s room. Sherlock’s jaw opens in surprise. “Graham?”

 

John’s eyebrows furrow. He glances at Greg perched in a desk chair. He’s talking on the phone, blushing furiously, that is until he sees John and Sherlock in the doorway. “Do you mean Greg?” 

 

“Same difference.”

 

Greg stands up, “I got to go, Myc. Yes, I’ll call you later.” He punches his thumb against his screen. He glares at Sherlock and John lingering in the doorway. “What the  _ hell _ are you two doing here?”

 

“I could say the same about you, Gavin.” Sherlock walks around the room, stopping occasionally to open lockers (and break into ones that are actually locked).

 

“For God sakes, Sherlock. His name is Greg.” John smiles and shrugs his shoulders apologetically at Greg who steps in Sherlock’s path, preventing him from contaminating further evidence.

 

“It’s not that hard to remember.” Greg scolds Sherlock who glowers at back at him, angered at his current inability to examine the evidence. He throws his hands in the air and sends a pleading look to John, something akin to ‘ _ please control him’. _

 

John smiles helplessly, hoping Greg will soon realize that no one could ever control Sherlock, especially when he’s deducing. John’s mind flashes back to Greg’s previous phone call. He eyes Greg suspiciously. “Who were you talking to?”

 

Sherlock groans in annoyance, giving up on his search of the end table and resorting to the inspection of the floor. Greg reluctantly allows him to do this, hoping this will distract him from other, more ludicrous behaviors. 

 

“Some bloke who found my wallet and so nicely returned it, if you must know.” Greg’s eyes flicker down below; ensuring the emergence of two students has gone undetected. “But the more important question concerns you two. What are you doing up here?” 

 

“You seemed super friendly with him.”

 

“Yeah, because he returned my wallet.”

 

“I don’t know, you seemed even more friendly than what would be acceptable for such an act. Plus, he’s already returned it, why are you still talking with him?”

 

Greg pales. “I don’t - we’re just -”

 

Sherlock’s muffled voice resounds from under the duvet. “Listening to you stutter defenses against you liking this ‘Myc’ is ridiculous. I have better things to be doing, like finding evidence, and you two, instead of blabbing, could be helping me.”

 

Greg’s previous anger at their entry is ignited once more. “This is not even what I meant to talk about! You’re going to make me lose my position at the Yard. My uncle will kill me if he finds out I let you enter the crime scene that I was supposed to be guarding!”

 

Guilt gnaws at John’s gut for putting his best mate in a situation that could hinder his ability to work at Scotland Yard after he graduates. He murmurs a quiet apology as  he grabs Sherlock’s arm and pulls him out of the room.

 

They lean against the door, their nerves still spiked from the adrenaline rush of the last hour. “Well, that was an epic fail.” John rubs his palm down his face, exhaustion settling in his bones. 

 

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums, reaching into his pocket, “Not entirely.” He pulls out a crisp, white envelope from the inside of his coat. He waggles the letter in front of John’s face.

 

John erupts with laughter. Sherlock chuckles alongside him as they descend the stairwell. “Stop it.” John covers his mouth to stifle the laughter. “We’re at a crime scene, we shouldn’t be laughing. It’s indecent.” 

 

They step into the night; the crowd is slowly departing, having their fill of excitement. The darkness provides secrecy as do the buildings that John and Sherlock sneak behind to arrive back at their dorms. Their shadows elongate, stretching against the walls. Sherlock glances up at them, appreciating how they twirl and spin in the moonlight.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Little Lottie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful TryingtoScribble <3

**“Let your mind wander.”**

 

Sherlock’s pen rests in his mouth. He chews on the cap as he taps his fingers restlessly on the desktop. He should be working on the case. The idiotic officers at the Yard believe it to be a suicide, but Sherlock knows better; however, his mind is far from solving this murder. Instead, his thoughts are consumed by someone and it terrifies Sherlock to his core.

 

Redbeard darts between his ankles. He scoops her up into his shaky arms and cradles her against his chest, burrowing his face into her fur. She reaches toward him; her outstretched claws knead his head, snagging his curls. She mews playfully as her ensnared claws tangle further. 

 

“Redbeard.” Sherlock groans in annoyance as he desperately tries to detach the claws that are now becoming a permanent accessory to his unruly hair. “Why must you always do this?” Redbeard whines in annoyance as Sherlock gently grips her purring body.

 

“Because no one could resist your curls.”

 

Sherlock’s head flies up. Redbeard hisses in annoyance at her disturbed play. She jumps down from Sherlock’s lap and darts to John who stands in the doorway, his arms crossed and a cheeky grin on his face.

 

The not so subtle flirtation causes Sherlock’s stomach to somersault. “What are you doing here?”

 

The question comes out harsher than Sherlock intended, more like an accusation, but John just smiles and bends down to scratch Redbeard behind her ear. “I wanted to know if you would come to my rugby game tonight.”

 

John flicks his eyes back up, hope making his already light eyes look lighter.

 

Sherlock finds himself nodding his head before he could stop himself.

 

“Great! It starts at six. I’ll see you afterward?”

 

Sherlock nods once more as John walks toward him and plops Redbeard in his lap. He drops a quick kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock stills and everything slows. He’s trying to process everything about that movement: the feel, the sound, the sight. He’s, unfortunately, missing how those lips would taste, but that could definitely be remedied. 

 

John’s breath tickles his cheek as he promises to see him after the game. Only when the door closes does Sherlock finally return to reality, but reality, no matter how appealing, is terrifying. He needs to think through this.

 

Sherlock grabs the bottle off the counter, relishing in the slow burn of the pills as they slide down his throat unaided by any liquid. He decides to revisit his hypotheses. 

 

He quickly grabs his journal and records his previous thoughts, before he saved Redbeard from the tree yesterday. 

 

_ First hypothesis:  mere curiosity; a fascination of the juxtaposition of the violent sport with his goal to be a doctor, a healer. _

 

_ Second hypothesis:  astonishment at how he eased Sherlock so effortlessly out of his cynical sneer, beckoning him into his warm atmosphere with a relaxed grin and disarming him from every barrier he had ever placed. _

 

_ Third hypothesis:  a compulsion to heal the raw wounds festering beneath, bandaged poorly by his loyalty to his sister and his compassion for others   _

 

He needs to determine a plausible reason for these  _ feelings _ . He quickly scribbles a title to this journal entry, to his new experiment.  _ Examination of John Watson. _

  
  


***

  
  


John’s feet bounce in anticipation, knocking against his desk.  The girl next to him glares and he smiles apologetically.  He sighs an exasperated breath that only fuels the anxiety incapacitating his lungs. 

 

The gum smacks against the teacher’s tongue, gliding against her yellowed teeth. Her open mouth mimics a grin as she welcomes the students, but it’s sinister; it’s too tight, too pinched to be anything but fake. Her lashes are thickly coated with cheap mascara, outlining her pale, almost transparent blue eyes in chunky shadows. Her poorly applied tan foundation outlines her jaw; her pale neck is a gleaming white contrast to the light brown barrier. Her plum lips stain the white gum that pops John’s attention back to her dull, droning instructions.

 

Sherlock’s reaction to him, to him kissing his cheek, was not what John had expected. The possibility John misread the situation or assumed Sherlock wanted John like John wanted him causes his heart to pound rapidly and harshly in his chest. He rests his head on the desk, harder than he intended.  The girl next to him exhales loudly. John snorts; she is going to murder him. 

 

***

 

“I can’t believe John asked you to go to his rugby match. I can feel the romance in the air.” Molly muses, resting her cheek on her palm, dazed. 

 

Sherlock groans, regretting even telling Molly. At least Mike is acting normal. Well, sort of. He’s staring at nothing, a permanent smile etched across his face. Okay, definitely not normal.  Sherlock’s head falls to the table; he bangs it lightly, the sound echoing around the dining hall. 

 

“Oh, Sherlock. Just ignore her. She just gets excited about love.” 

 

Mike pats Sherlock on the arm, but Sherlock raises his head from the table and recoils. “I don’t  _ love _ John.” 

 

“Not yet, you don’t.” Molly's eyes swing back to him, glossed with happiness. “Oh! Can I be your maid of honor? I could even help plan the wedding!”

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes at Molly. She ignores his harsh glare and continues to coo, quite loudly, about the loveliness of John and Sherlock together. 

 

***

 

Mycroft watches Greg moves his hand around, his face pinched in agitation. During lunch, he received a phone call from his oldest sister and she has occupied his time for the last 7 minutes and 47 seconds. Mycroft can’t help but be a little upset. 

 

Greg catches his eye through the window and smiles apologetically. He mimics his sister’s continuous talking with his hand and rolls his eyes. He mouths his apology, but Mycroft smiles politely and waves it away, even if he would rather throw that phone off the nearest cliff. 

 

His own phone decides to ring and, once he reads who it is, he curses. Their barely touched food will continue to go uneaten. He stands from the table and makes his way outside.

 

Greg sees him approach and his smile brightens. “Look, I have to go. Yes, you can go to the party, but if I hear about yo-”

 

Greg removes the phone from his ear and scowls at it. “She hung up on me!”

 

He looks back up at Mycroft and must see some unsettling emotion, even though Mycroft is trying his best to conceal his displeasure at having to leave.

 

“I’m sorry, my sisters can be a pain, but there was a minor argument with the nanny -”

 

“Gregory, it’s fine, but I must go.”

 

Greg’s apologetic smile falls quickly, preparing himself for inevitable rejection. “Right. Well, it was great meeting you and I-”

 

“I hope we could do this another time? Hopefully, we won’t be so rudely interrupted.” 

 

Greg laughs, happiness bubbling up from his sorrow. “Absolutely.”

 

Mycroft smiles and nods his head goodbye, but as he turns, Greg grabs his arm. Mycroft turns his head slightly to where he can observe Greg’s unabashed smile but Greg cannot see his.

 

“Maybe you could be at my rugby game tonight?”

 

“Maybe, indeed.”

  
  


***

 

Sweat pours out of John, running down his forehead, burning his eyes. The afternoon sun beats intensely, the grass, still dry from the scorching summer, crunches beneath the team’s footsteps. He catches up to Greg, who is leading the pack and nudges him with his elbow.

 

“So, is your mystery man coming to the game tonight?” 

 

Greg huffs. “Really, John? Is it really killing you that much not to know?”

 

“Yes!” John throws his head back, lamenting to the sky. “Why won’t you tell me?  I just want to make sure he’s a decent guy, that he’s not gonna break my best mate’s heart.” The team halts and begins stretching. 

 

“You’re such a mother hen.” Greg teases, collapsing onto the ground. 

 

John sits beside him, tilting his face toward the sun. “Shut up.” 

 

Greg sobers. “In all seriousness, John.  I promise you’ll meet him eventually. I just have to feel this out, make sure it is actually something before I tell you.” John nods.

 

Greg murmurs, rubbing his hand tiredly down his face. “Before I get my hopes up.” 

 

John isn’t sure if he was supposed to hear that so he ignores it and lies back on the grass and instead tries to concentrate on the game. He can’t focus. He knows he should, it’s the first game of the year, yet his mind keeps reverting to Sherlock. He feels his cheeks inflame. He curses himself for the effect the first year has on him. 

 

Sherlock. Sherlock’s soft lips, soft and bowed. Sherlock’s eyes that aren’t quite blue and aren’t quite green, yet are too beautiful to be named a color as simple as teal. Sherlock’s cheekbones, arched and angular, shaping his gorgeous face. His heart drops to his stomach remembering Sherlock’s rejection. “I don’t think Sherlock is going to come if that offers any consolation.”

 

Greg turns his head and elbows John gently in the ribs. “He’ll come around. He’s just scared is all. I see the way he looks at you. There’s something there, I know it.”

 

John attempts to smile at Greg’s encouragement but it’s more of a grimace.

 

“Watson! Lestrade!” John is thrown from his daze. His coach towers over them, hip popped, face scrunched in annoyance. “Are you going to daydream all night or do you actually want to play?”  John and Greg smile apologetically and heave themselves off the grass, out of their analysis of the two men who have engrossed their minds. 

 

***

 

“Of all things to do be doing on a Friday night,” Mycroft murmurs begrudgingly. He feels idiotic; no, this is idiotic. He leans slightly on his umbrella, hoping his sour mood will slide off his shoulders.

 

He is aware that his presence is perplexing to the swarm of buzzing students, but he can offer them no consolation because he is just as perplexed. Their peaked curiosity only irritates him more.

 

He desperately wishes to leave.

 

Greg wouldn’t know if Mycroft left, but Greg also wouldn’t know that Mycroft had come and that bothers Mycroft more, and it infuriates Mycroft that it bothers him more.

 

The crowd erupts.

 

Mycroft vows that if these fools surrounding him chant again, he will whack them with his umbrella. Damn the social consequences. There are only ten minutes left in the match. He will survive. 

 

Hopefully. 

 

His eyes rake the pitch, searching for Greg. He spots him, sprinting swiftly as he tosses the ball to a short, sturdy blonde. The blonde, noticing an opening, dashes between two players of the opposing team and slides across the line.

The crowd roars. Mycroft folds his hands over the end of his umbrella to stop himself from covering his ears.

 

The blonde smiles dashingly at the mass of students and, as his eyes fall on a particular student, surprise dawns on his features. He quickly and light-heartedly winks. 

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes at the flirtatious behavior and follows the blonde’s gaze to see the “lucky” student. All Mycroft can see is a mass of curly hair until a young girl, next to the bloke, gently pulls on his arm. Slowly Sherlock turns, face angling to hear the girl’s whisper.

 

Mycroft happens to find one more reason to be bothered tonight.

  
  


***

  
  


“Sherlock?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Sherlock, you’re not listening!” Molly attempts to hold back her laughter at the dreamy look Sherlock is sporting but fails miserably.

 

Sherlock scowls. “What?” He groans between gritted teeth.

 

“Oh, nothing. Just simply stating that you are so smitten by John and you don’t even realize it!”  Mike chortles.

 

Molly places her hand over her mouth to quiet her budding laughter.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sherlock sniffs harshly.

 

“Sure you don’t…” Molly trails off and winks, struggling to mimic John.

 

Mike bursts into laughter beside her, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and halts.

 

His eyes land on a familiar umbrella. He anxiously scrutinizes every detail. What is Mycroft doing here? He begins to barrel through the crowd, toward his annoying brother, but immediately ceases.

 

What would he say to Mycroft? Accuse him of being an annoying stalker who needs to mind his own business? Even that sounds childish in his head.

 

If he confronts Mycroft, Sherlock could risk Mycroft discovering how he feels about John (Sherlock doesn’t even know how he feels about John). Sherlock cannot let that happen.  

  
  


***

 

Mycroft cannot approach Sherlock.

 

Sherlock would immediately know his attendance was more than simple espionage. He would quickly discover Mycroft’s best-kept secret; a secret so secret that even Mycroft himself can’t discover why it even is a secret.

 

His head aches; pounds and pulsates.

 

A whistle blows and Mycroft sighs in relief.

 

The match has ended, Greg and his team have won and now he can leave. As he strolls toward the edge of the crowd, preparing to call his car, he meets Greg’s hopeful eyes. Greg’s smile widens and as he congratulates the other team. His eyes bore into Mycroft’s; an appreciative, grateful gaze that makes Mycroft’s inexperienced heart leap.

 

Maybe tonight wasn’t such a waste.

  
  


***

  
  


Greg watches Mycroft from the pitch; he is surprised he even came. Their first date had gone well, at least Greg thinks so, but Mycroft is incredibly difficult to read. Greg’s eyes meet Mycroft’s and his lifted spirit soars higher at Mycroft’s upturned lips.

 

His coach calls the team over and Greg wonders how much trouble he would be in if he snuck away. Greg nods absentmindedly along with the team as his coach gives them an encouraging speech that promises progress; her words fall on closed ears. Greg loses sight of Mycroft and his stomach drops. Assuming that Mycroft has left, Greg reverts his eyes back to his coach as she ends the pep talk. The team disperses and Greg, ignoring John’s call, sprints toward where he last saw Mycroft.

 

The dark sky, illuminated by a full moon, inhibits Greg’s ability to see properly. His eyes wander through the crowd, a deep frown forming at the prospect of not getting to thank Mycroft, to not tell him how much it actually means that he came.

 

“Crowds of unruly students are not usually part of environments that I actively and willingly partake.”

 

Greg’s smile etches itself across his face, creasing his eyes. He turns excitedly. 

 

He’s leaning against an oak tree, umbrella twirling in his hands. His eyes spin with the umbrella and finally rest on Greg.

 

“I’m glad you came.” Damn, Greg, don’t sound too eager. “Hopefully you didn’t curse your existence the entire time.”

 

Mycroft halts his umbrella and fastens it. His lips turn upwards, not necessarily a smile but something indicating amusement. Greg considers it a success.

 

“That’s quite alright.  I tend to view most interactions with other people as dull and tedious.”

 

Greg’s illuminating grin falls slightly.

 

Mycroft panics, and scowls at himself for reacting so drastically to something as insignificant as another man’s emotions. He steps away from the tree, and approaches Greg with long, calculated strides.

 

“But,” Mycroft fears he will despise his sentiment later, “maybe next time we could occupy a space more… suitable for my tastes.”

 

Greg’s lips lift once more and regrettably, for Mycroft, Mycroft’s pulse does as well.

 

“Yeah.  Yeah, I’d like that.”

  
  


***

  
  


John watches Greg excitedly maneuver away from him and their other teammates. He chuckles at his friend’s childish antics, but realizes he is not far from such sappiness. Although John is curious to see who has snagged his best mate, he is even more eager to see Sherlock. He jogs over to the dwindling pack of students. 

 

 

He sees him with Molly and Mike on the end of the field.  

 

 

Molly is trying to repress another set of giggles as John approaches. Mike acknowledges John, causing Molly to contain her snicker and Sherlock’s face to burn.

 

 

“You came!” John abruptly stops in front of Sherlock.

 

 

His smile is bright and blinding and Sherlock feels his lips lift in response. “Yes. Yes, I did.” He nods toward the dormitory. “I needed a break from combing through the victim’s journal. I can only digest so much idiocy.”

 

 

John laughs and his eyes squint causing small lines to frame the soft blue. “Well, I’m glad to alleviate the monotony. Hopefully, you weren’t too bored watching the game.”

 

 

Molly giggles, “Oh, I think he was thoroughly entertained.”

 

Mike snorts and quickly covers his mouth.

 

John smiles amusedly as he looks at Sherlock for clarification. 

 

“They’re being ridiculous.” Sherlock glares at Molly and Mike. His eyes soften as they meet John’s. 

 

“That so?” John grins, nodding toward Molly.

 

Molly smiles brightly, “Oh yes!  Absolutely insufferable! Come on, Mike. We have a biology test to study for.” Molly pulls on Mike’s sleeve as she begins to drag him away from the pitch. “Bye, John. Bye, Sherlock!” Molly sings, dropping a wink. Mike wails beside her as they disappear in the swarm of departing students. 

 

“What was that about?” John examines Sherlock who glowers at the duo’s disappearing backs. 

 

“Nothing important.” Sherlock turns toward John and shrugs his shoulder, hoping to seem aloof.

 

“Speaking of important, have you found anything in the journal?” John questions as he falls in step beside Sherlock.

 

Sherlock lights up at the mention of the case, eager to discuss what he has found. “I don’t think it’s the victim’s journal.”

 

John's head whirls skeptically toward him, his eyebrow arches. “What do you mean?”

 

Sherlock sighs and throws his arms wildly in front of him. “I mean exactly what I said, John! Please do keep up.”

 

John closes his eyes and shakes his head fondly. “Alright. Why do you think it’s not his journal?”

 

“For starters, it’s not his handwriting. I did a thorough comparison analysis. There’s no resemblance between the small, messy scrawl of the victim's handwriting, and the text of this journal. It’s elegant and slanted, written with extreme care.”

 

“Anything else?” John opens the door to the stairwell of their dorms and Sherlock grins back at him as he passes through.

 

“Of course, John. There’s always more.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! : )


	4. The Journal of Sherlock Holmes: The Examination of John Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes from Sherlock's journal will be posted in between some chapters, so you all can see how he's testing his hypotheses : )

**Entry #1**

 

 **Purpose** :

_To examine the reason John Watson is alluring and to establish just how alluring he is when compared to activities in which I happily take part._

 

 **Materials** :

_John Watson_

_Journal_

_Stimulants_

_Anything deemed necessary to capture John’s attention_

 

 **Data** :

_N/A_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you like this idea (posting entries of his journal), so I can see if I should continue to do it! : )
> 
> P.S. Smut in the next chapter ; )


	5. The Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing smut, so let me know what you think! xD
> 
> As always, TryingtoScribble is a huge blessing. <3

**“Insolent boy! This slave of fashion, basking in your glory.”**

 

“What do you think?” Sherlock hovers over John’s shoulder. John sits on Sherlock’s bed with Sherlock lying despairingly behind him, occasionally lifting himself off the mattress to determine what John is thinking and then flopping back onto the duvet with a huff. Each breath puffs against John’s neck, warming him from head to toe. Each warm caress of heated breath causes John to lose his place on the page as well as his sanity.

 

He miraculously manages a light chuckle, as Sherlock flops onto the mattress once more, and begins to read the letter again. “You’re so impatient.”

 

Sherlock groans and flips off the bed onto the floor. He splays himself on the carpet like a starfish, his dressing gown billows around him like a giant, silk halo.

 

“Why don’t you just tell me what you’ve deduced, if you’re so impatient?”

 

Sherlock sneers and flips onto his side, facing away from John. He drags the edge of his dressing gown with him, wrapping it tightly around his slim frame.

 

“Fine.” John rolls the words into a breathy exhale and continues his examination of the letter. The fine, tight script could’ve been anyone’s, as far as John knows. The contents, however, are definitely staged. They’re constructed and purposeful, clearly meant for someone, left for someone.

 

He glances over at Sherlock who remains silent, continuing to sulk in a fetal position.  

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

John swivels around in his chair to face Sherlock’s slumped form and kicks him gently, prodding Sherlock’s side with his left foot.

 

Sherlock sneaks his hand out and grasps John’s foot and pulls, knocking him off the bed and onto the floor. Limbs flailing, John falls in a heap next to Sherlock. His breath rushes out in a startled burst of laughter. Sherlock joins in and the room is soon full of their laughs that reside into quiet giggles.

 

John rolls onto his back. "You're such an arse."

 

"Hmm. Yes, so I've been told."

 

"What do you make of it?" John lulls his head toward Sherlock. Sherlock mimics the movement and examines John's inquisitive expression.

 

"You've seen it. What do you think it means?" Sherlock's eyes flicker back and forth between John's magnetic blues.

 

This close, John can feel Sherlock's breath, light and warm, fan across his cheeks. He closes his eyes.

 

"It seems like someone is quite obsessed."

 

Sherlock is silent; John takes it as a cue to continue.

 

“This letter is flooded with prose proclaiming ardent love for someone. The most interesting part, I think, is the constant allusions to _The Phantom of the Opera._ ”

 

John’s forehead crinkles in concentration, lines tighten his eyelids. He recites, “’My love assists in my construction of my music, of the dark, compelling, twisting notes that beat rapidly out of my broken soul. Our music of the night swells from beneath our entwined hearts and beats ferociously with the fear that taints our love.’”

 

John opens his eyes. “Whoever left this rendition seems to relate to the Phantom, a quite obsessive, manipulative, murderous character. To leave this with the student, to let him keep something so intimately written, they must be quite infatuated with him."

 

Sherlock purses his lips and closes his eyes. He smiles slightly, his teeth shining in the dim light. "I don't think this was meant for the victim."

 

“What do you mean?” John lifts the letter above him, earnestly searching the letter.

 

“It mentions the victim’s murder.” Sherlock leans closer to John; his head rests gently against John’s shoulder. His fingers graze the words. “ _There will never be a day when I don’t think of you.”_

 

John tries not to focus on those words and how he wishes Sherlock was speaking of him. “How does that relate to the murder?”

 

“Come on, John! Think!” Sherlock inclines his head toward John’s face, inches separating his rapidly moving lips from John’s unsteady ones. “The victim’s brain was smashed into the pavement. It was splattered, obliterated. His brain, the thing he uses to think or would if he was actually intelligent –”

 

“Sherlock –”

 

“Oh, come on! He’s dead, it doesn’t matter if I insult his intelligence or lack thereof. As I was saying, the line alludes to the fact that his thoughts are scattered, literally thrown in bloody clumps along the concrete. There will never be a day that the victim will think, ever again.”

 

“That was amazing.”

 

Sherlock glows.

 

“I wonder if the murder has any connection to the actual scene that this song is performed.”

 

Sherlock shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen the musical.”

 

“What?”

 

“It had never previously promised any useful information.” Sherlock scans the letter once more, committing the proclamations and devotion to memory.

 

“But now it would.”

 

“Possibly.” Sherlock relents. He meets John’s imploring gaze. “Fine. I’ll watch it.” Sherlock pauses. “If you watch it with me.”

 

“Deal.”

 

***

 

John insisted Sherlock watch _The Phantom of the Opera_ immediately, as in that very night. So here they are, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and an assortment of pillows and blankets. The musical is almost over. The Phantom has dragged Christine down to his lair. Raoul has followed them, resulting in his capture and possible death.

 

“Raoul is an idiot.” Sherlock groans, rolling his eyes at Raoul’s pleas for mercy.

 

John huffs in disagreement. “Why do you say that?”

 

Sherlock sighs at John’s inability to see the obvious. “The Phantom is _obsessed_ with Christine. He literally forced her into a wedding dress! Why on Earth does Raoul think any amount of pleading will evoke sympathy in the Phantom?”

 

John shakes his head earnestly, willing Sherlock to understand. “If you love someone and you feel powerless to help them, it becomes quite easy to try to bargain, to plead if you will. Humans, despite some circumstances, are relentlessly hopeful. We fight even if it is a fight we cannot win.” John draws his gaze back to the telly. “Now if you would actually watch, you’ll see that pleading does help.”

 

Sherlock follows John’s stare and sees Christine and the Phantom grasping each other desperately. He withholds his criticism of the dramatic scene and once more turns to John whose mouth is slowly forming the words: _Angel of Music, you deceived me._

 

John is too preoccupied with the scene before him to notice Sherlock ardently memorizing and storing John’s intense, perceptive analysis. The way his brow crinkles. The way his eyes light with wonder and insight.

 

“Look here.” John nudges Sherlock to look at the telly, but Sherlock cannot tear his gaze from the wonder that is John Watson with his subtle intelligence and vast knowledge of human emotion. “Right before Christine gasps, ‘ _I gave you my mind blindly’,_ the Phantom belts ‘ _you’ve passed the point,’_ then quietly and despairingly he whispers ‘ _of no return’._ If you watch closely, you can see him stumble backward and turn slightly away from Christine as she pleads for his mercy.”

 

John’s previous slouch and disregard for decent posture are forgotten. He is animated, vibrant, and lively.

 

Lovely.

 

“He slowly transforms from the powerful manipulative Phantom into the insecure, terrified Erik beneath the mask. The tone of his powerful voice changes to one of shame and horror. He realizes _he_ is the one _‘past the point of no return’._ He realizes all his manipulations, deceit, and toxic love has forced his love, his muse, to fear and flee from him. He realizes the cruelty with which he has acted and he can’t bear to look at the ramifications of his choices.”

 

Sherlock is breathless. His lungs are finding it difficult to expand and it terrifies him. John’s gaze is unfocused as he stares at the scene unfolding before him, but as his eyes shift to Sherlock, Sherlock who is leaning closer and closer, John’s eyes sharpen and widen with recognition.

 

Sherlock feels John’s hand twitch beside him, move slightly, and thread his fingers through Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s heart pounds in his chest, his lungs expand rapidly. John gives his hand a tight, gentle squeeze and Sherlock feels his heart unraveling and his hand intertwining with John’s.

 

Sherlock gulps. This is too close. Why is everything with John always too close? John swallows and his Adam’s apple bobs. Sherlock needs to remove himself from this position, this compromising position. He attempts to push away, but John quickly grasps his wrist, gently looping his fingers and pulling Sherlock closer. John sits up, pulling Sherlock with him. John’s back leans against the bed and Sherlock’s hands, have nowhere else to land except John’s chest. Sherlock inhales sharply. John’s pupils widen. Adrenaline courses through Sherlock’s tense body. This is dangerous; he _needs_ to withdraw before it’s too late.

 

He tries to release himself from John’s grasp, but John tightens his hold on Sherlock’s wrist. “Is this okay?”

 

Sherlock nods and feels himself falling, falling into the entrancing storm that is John.

 

John’s eyes flicker to Sherlock’s lips, causing Sherlock to involuntarily extend his tongue and graze it across his own lips.  John leans in slightly, head tilting. Sherlock’s mind is screaming to run, to throw himself out of the window but all he can do is lean closer because with John everything is simultaneously too close and not close enough. This will be good for the experiment, Sherlock tries to rationalize, but as John’s lips brush against Sherlock’s, all reason rushes out the window.

 

The kiss is awkward and clumsy and full of nose bumps and soft breaths. John pulls Sherlock closer, into his lap, and begins to thread his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock gasps and tightly grasps John’s lapels for fear of falling off of John because all he wants to do is fall into him and drown in this moment, in this glorious kiss.

 

Sherlock is overwhelmed. His mind finally catches up with his body, realizes the current circumstances, and begins to panic. John senses Sherlock’s uneasiness and pulls back slightly, searching Sherlock’s eyes for any sign of unwillingness, but is instead met with Sherlock’s soft lips once more as Sherlock attempts to lead. John smiles against Sherlock’s breathy pecks and leans back. Sherlock tries to chase John’s mouth but is met with John’s finger. Sherlock, puzzled by the lack of contact and fearful of failure, furrows his brows. John smiles reassuringly and whispers “like this” and drags Sherlock’s mouth back to him.

 

The cool night air rushes into the dorm, urging the two boys closer. John growls as Sherlock unexpectedly takes John’s bottom lip between his teeth. Sherlock smirks; thrilled that he could successfully excite John. John kisses down Sherlock’s chin, nudging his face up and peppering kisses along his neck. John licks Sherlock’s throat and sucks harshly right below his jaw causing Sherlock to gasp in delight. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Sherlock breathes against John’s hair.

 

John pauses by Sherlock’s ear, “Do you want to stop?”  

 

“God, no.” Sherlock pleads as he drags John’s lips back to his swollen mouth.

 

Their breaths mingle together. Hands grasp skin and cloth. Sherlock breaks away, chest heaving.

 

The stimulant, taken hours before, pulsates, alive and dangerous. Sherlock can’t think clearly.  What was once an interesting, enticing experiment has transformed into a hazardous zone of sentiment, clogging and incapacitating. Sherlock should just mercifully end this; cut off whatever limbs have been ensnared in this entrancing quicksand that is John Watson, but instead he feels himself falling below the surface, succumbed with no escape.

 

A startled yawn escapes Sherlock’s lips. John crinkles his nose and giggles softly. He pecks Sherlock's lips and Sherlock leans in for more. As Sherlock inches forward, another yawn leaks from his mouth.

 

John chuckles and rubs his thumbs along Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones. “You’re sleepy.”

 

“No, I’m not,” Sherlock mumbles and buries his face into John’s neck, hiding his third yawn.

 

“Uh huh. Whatever you say.” John rolls Sherlock off his lap and, once standing, drags him off the floor. “Come on, to bed.” He gently shoves Sherlock onto the mattress. Sherlock begrudgingly climbs under the duvet. John stares at the empty space next to Sherlock. His eyes linger and then flicker toward Sherlock’s open gaze.

 

Sherlock smiles lopsidedly at John. He stretches his hand out and grasps John’s wrist. “Stay with me.”

 

John, shocked and elated, starts to slide in next to him, but not before Sherlock sneaks a hand out from beneath the covers to place it on John’s chest. “Shower first.” He scolds.

  


John laughs and raises his hands in surrender. “I’ll have to borrow some of your clothes.”

  


Sherlock points toward his dresser and rolls over, facing the wall. Redbeard rises from the pile of blankets Sherlock generously laid on the floor for her. She jumps onto the bed and crawls onto Sherlock’s hip. She kneads into his pants, tickling his skin, and circles five times before collapsing in a heap. John smiles and quickly shuts the door to the bathroom before Sherlock can see how blissfully happy he is.

  


***

  


When Sherlock hears the shower turn off, he rolls back over to face the front of the room. Redbeard growls in annoyance and jumps from off the mattress, seeking solace in her own bed.

  


He doesn't know why he asked John to stay, he just knows that he could not let him leave. He doesn’t know how things will proceed, doesn’t know how he wants them to, but he knows he feels something with John that he’s never felt before. The nagging tone of his brother informing him of the dangers of sentiment circles in his mind, but he can’t help but think that if this is sentiment, this vibrance he feels when around John, then he doesn’t know why he’s avoided it for so long.

  


Logically, he knows that it’s not just sentiment, it’s John. The fact that one person could turn his world entirely upside down should be unnerving, but it’s thrilling and he wants more.

  


The bathroom door opens and steam billows out along with the bright light John hastily shuts off when he realizes it’s shining directly in Sherlock’s eyes. Their eyes meet, heated and uncertain, both terrified to move but desperate to nonetheless.  

  


John stays at the entrance to the bathroom, towel looped around his hips showing the barest amount of hair that travels south. He clenches the towel tightly in his fist. “Sherlock, we don’t have to do-”

  


“I want to.” Sherlock breathes.

  


Sherlock sees the burning fire leap in John’s eyes as he strides to the bed, his towel meeting the floor. He climbs onto the bed and straddles Sherlock’s hips over the duvet. Sherlock barely has enough time to appreciate John’s naked form before John is kissing him. The burning furnace inside John is desperate for the ice cold touch of Sherlock’s fingers as they dance over his back, gripping and sliding and scratching.

  


John kisses down Sherlock’s neck, sucking bruises into his skin that will show everyone what happened tonight. The idea of being wanted and desired arouses Sherlock more than he believed it would. He eagerly thrusts his hips, John’s cock sliding deliciously against his pants.

  


John growls at the contact. He lifts up from Sherlock’s lips and quickly stands to wrench the duvet off of Sherlock. He hungrily eyes Sherlock’s clothed form. “You are wearing too many clothes.”

  


Sherlock’s voice is low and husky, his eyes teasing, his mouth delicious. “Why don’t you take them off me?”

  


“Gladly.”

  


He straddles Sherlock’s hips once more and removes his pants as Sherlock eagerly rips off his shirt.

  


John attaches his lips to Sherlock’s right nipple, lapping and sucking at the tender flesh. Sherlock keens into his touch and a needy whine escapes his lips.

  


“God, I knew you’d be sensitive.” John kisses his way down Sherlock’s stomach, whispering endearments between each.

  


“You’re so beautiful.” _Kiss_. “So lovely.” _Kiss_. “Brilliant.” _Kiss_. “Gorgeous.”

  


Sherlock can’t help the tears that prick his eyes as he soaks in the adoration John is bestowing on him. He gently grasps John’s head and brings his lips back to his, smothering him in a bruising kiss. John groans and aligns their hips so their cocks slide against each other. Sherlock gasps into John’s mouth.

  


“Do you have any-?”

  


“Bedside table.”

  


John quickly grabs the lube. Sherlock scowls at the lack of contact and grips John’s arms pulling him on top of him.

  


John chuckles and it vibrates out of his chest and sends a thrill through Sherlock. “Impatient are we?” He kisses Sherlock’s temple and grazes a finger against Sherlock’s perineum. Sherlock arches into his touch with a shaky gasp. “What do you want me to do, love? Tell me and I’ll do it.”

  


Sherlock’s mind short circuits. In all his sexual encounters, he was simply the one to be used. The idea of someone actually wanting to pleasure him leaves him speechless.

  


John mistakes his silence for reluctance and he quickly removes his hand and begins to detach himself from Sherlock. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. We don’t have to-”

  


This jolts Sherlock into action. His lips collide harshly with John’s, begging, pleading with him to stay, showing him how desperately he wants this. “Suck me off.” He whispers against their red lips.

  


John lays Sherlock back on the bed. “Yes.”

  


He slides down Sherlock’s body and grips his hips. He swallows Sherlock’s cock and hollows out his cheeks. His tongue gliding and licking and pulling and sucking and it’s glorious. Sherlock fights the urge to thrust into John’s mouth, but John loosens his grip on Sherlock’s hips and encourages Sherlock’s sporadic movements, letting Sherlock fuck his mouth.

  


Sherlock is breathless, desperately sucking in lungfuls of air. The pressure is building and he feels weightless. He grasps John’s wet hair in his hands and pulls gently, attempting to orient himself to the present. John groans around his cock, setting Sherlock aflame, he’s burning and drowning and alive, absolutely alive.

  


John slides his hand over his cock, easing him through his release. He collapses into the mattress, exhausted and sated. He hears John working himself off and he starts to assist, but John pushes him back down, kisses him on the cheek with a “relax, love. Next time.”

  


He hears John’s orgasm, the soft moans he wishes he could see and experience himself, but he’s too overwhelmed, too blissful to appreciate John lose control. Next time. He assures himself.

  


“Yes,” John replies. Sherlock can hear his smile in his response and he can’t help but smile in return.

  


John settles in next to him, weaving his legs with Sherlock’s. Sherlock scoots closer and rests his head on John’s chest, listening to and finding solace in his rapid heartbeat.  

  


As John threads his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, Sherlock can’t help but feel guilty. He cares for John. It’s dangerous and exhilarating. He thinks John cares for him, but will he once he finds out who Sherlock is? Once he finds out about his addiction? Once he finds out how he pays for the pricey pills?

  


John sighs happily and buries his face in Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock hears, but mostly feels, his steady breaths. He can’t lose this. He won’t.

  


Fear grips his heart in an ever-tightening vice. The memory of his last deal haunts him now.

  


_The clouds swirl and darken above Sherlock. The wispy tendrils float ominously and intertwine to form billowing masses that cover the gray expanse and hide the fearful sun. The willow’s branches whistle in the chaotic wind, haphazardly thrown in all directions, orchestrating a sporadic, enchanting dance. Sherlock loses himself in the movement. His fingers yearn for his violin. He composes a violent melody. The symphony swirls in his mind; the melody pivots and rolls; each crescendo is forceful and the sheer power thrums through Sherlock’s blood._

 

_“I love to see you waiting for me so eagerly.  It makes me feel sooooo special.” The boils in Sherlock’s stomach as the ominous voice sings behind him._

 

_His lips thin as he bares his teeth.  “You’re late.”  Sherlock steps around the tree._

 

_Moriarty grins sadistically, enjoying how ensnared Sherlock is, how desperate, how addicted.  “We’ve been doing this for how long, Sherlock?  You should know by now that I have more important things to attend to.”  He tosses the package toward Sherlock.  Sherlock lunges for it, opening it, anxiously confirming the contents.  “Don’t make me regret supporting your… habit.”_

 

_Sherlock sneaks the delivery into his bag._

  


_“Pleasure doing business with you.”  He pivots, turning his head slightly, “You know where to find me once you’re ready to pay.”  He whistles, filling the air with an unnerving tune._

  


His payment is due soon and he has never dreaded it more than at this moment, as he’s curled into John’s chest, warm and so unbelievably happy. He won’t pay for it. He’ll give the pills back and end the deal with Moriarty. He cannot lose John. He won’t.

 

***

 

John awakes feeling more at peace than he has in years. The mid-afternoon sun shines endearingly through the window, casting dazzling light onto Sherlock. Papers scatter the floor where they attempted to locate all the allusions and make sense of the maddening love encased in the letter. John should wake Sherlock, he’ll be furious that he slept, especially this long, but John can’t bring himself to jostle him from his slumber. He’s so peaceful. The usual hard, angular edges of his sharp face are soft and glow in the amber light.

 

John’s fingers twitch by his side. He moves quietly, scooting closer to Sherlock’s sleeping form. He reaches out delicately and brushes Sherlock’s dark curls off of his forehead. Sherlock stirs, his nose scrunches in response to John’s brief touch. As John begins to lift his hand, there’s a sharp knock at the door. Sherlock’s eyes open instantly and curiously stare at John’s lifted hand that hovers just above his brow.

 

John’s heart thuds wildly in his chest, a blush creeps across his face for being caught in such a silly, intimate gesture. “I’ll get it.” He heaves himself off the bed, ducks his head to hide the pinkness of his cheeks, and manages to pull his pants on.

 

Greg loiters outside the door, pacing back and forth. He’s murmuring to himself and does not cease even as the door opens.

 

“Greg?”

 

Greg halts and glances up at John in relief. “You weren’t in our room, so I thought you’d be in here.” He bursts into the room and collapses onto the end of Sherlock’s bed.

 

Sherlock rises from his mattress immediately and glares pointedly at Greg. “Sure. Please come in. Lie on my bed and contaminate it with your filth.” Sherlock quickly stands, completely unembarrassed about his nudity.

  


“Christ, Sherlock! Put some clothes on!”

  


John hastily throws a dressing gown at Sherlock who sulkily wraps it around himself.

  


“You weren’t complaining last night,” Sherlock mumbles just loud enough for both Greg and John to here.

  


Greg closes his eyes and covers his ears with his hands. “I don’t need to hear or see this.”

  


John throws a pillow that must’ve fallen off the bed during the night at Greg’s face.

  


“Oi!”

  


“Why are you here?”

  


“My apologies. I didn’t realize I was interrupting anything!”

  


Sherlock smirks. “Well you were, so if you could kindly lea-”

  


Greg opens his eyes and uncovers his hands from his ears. “I needed to talk to John.” Greg’s gaze falls onto the scattered mass of papers on the floor. “What’s all that?”

 

Sherlock blocks his vision defensively, maneuvering his body protectively over their research. “It doesn’t concern you.”

 

Greg huffs in annoyance and looks to John for help. John sighs and nudges Sherlock out of the way. Sherlock mumbles obscenities under his breath but allows John to move him to the side. Greg climbs off the bed and picks up the letter.

 

“Did you pick this up from the crime scene?”

  


Both John and Sherlock remain silent, allowing Greg to examine the data they’ve collected.

 

“Blimey.” He flips through the material. “Is this what you did all night?”

 

John hums in affirmation and then smiles wickedly, catches Sherlock’s gaze, and winks. “Well... not _all_ that we did.”

 

Greg groans. “Too much information.” He lifts the letter and glares pointedly at the both of them. “I want in.”

  



	6. The Journal of Sherlock Holmes: The Examination of John Watson

**Entry #2**

**Experiment 1:** _Sex_

**Conclusion:**

Subject _, John Watson, is more intoxicating and liberating than any drug._


	7. The Music of the Night

**“Turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts to cold, unfeeling night.”**

 

Greg studies the notes John and Sherlock (reluctantly) loaned him. He had to catch up on the investigation and in order to do so, he had to examine what they had discovered so far. Sherlock was far from happy.

Greg takes a bite out of his sandwich and looks at the lyrics written in John’s sloppy scrawl. 

 

_ Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness stirs and wakes imagination. _

 

He suppresses a shudder. This murderer is obsessed, not unlike the Phantom, but it’s as if these murders aren’t to ensure his identity is kept secret or to protect his reign over the “Opera House”, but rather to provide something for the one he is obsessed with. It’s as if these murders are presents, given from the murderer to his “muse”.   
  


He needs to inform John and Sherlock. Sherlock’s probably already deduced this, but it’s important nonetheless and Greg will be damned if he’s left out of the loop once more. 

As he shoves the papers into his bag, he remembers what he meant to tell John this morning and curses under his breath. His indecision about Mycroft, about the intensity of their relationship and whether or not he should pursue this relationship that feels like it’s developing too quickly, causes his head to pound. He sighs heavily, slings his bag over his shoulder, and throws his half-eaten sandwich into the nearby bin, unable to stomach the rest.    
  


He turns and heads back toward their dorms, hoping John and Sherlock are there. He needs to inform Sherlock of what he’s found, and he desperately needs to talk to John about his confusing mess of emotions. 

  
  


***

 

John chuckles, although he tries to hide it. He’s been studying for the last hour or so, and Sherlock has been anything but helpful. 

He started off by working on some experiment he claims is heavily recorded in his journal. Then he proceeded to play with Redbeard by dragging John’s shoelaces across the floor. Needless to say, John needs new ones. A half hour ago, John opened the window to let some fresh air into the stifling room, and a bumblebee flew in landing on the desk, desperately in need of sugar water (of which John had to fetch). Sherlock nursed the poor bee back to life and now lies across John’s lap as John scans the pages of his textbook. He keeps trying to nudge it out of John’s hands but quickly stops as John accidentally drops it on his chest. 

 

Sherlock lets out a huff of frustration and shoves the offending book onto the floor. John releases another soft chuckle as he maneuvers out from under Sherlock and nudges Sherlock into a sitting position. Sherlock crosses his arms indignantly and scoots away from John. John sighs and leans closer to Sherlock, who peers down at him.    
  


“You hurt me.”

 

“I didn’t mean to.” John inches closer. Sherlock allows him.

 

“I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to make it right.”   
  


“I know. I did a horrible sin.” John straddles Sherlock’s hips, lips dangerously closer to Sherlock’s.

 

Sherlock lowers his head ever so slightly, leaning closer and closer -    
  


“For god’s sakes!”   
  


John jumps, startled by Greg’s outburst, and falls off the bed. He laughs himself into a heap on the floor as Sherlock scowls at Greg from the bed.

 

“You can uncover your eyes, Lestrade, we aren’t naked.” John pulls himself up off the floor.

 

“Yet,” Sherlock smirks as John plops down next to him.   
  


Greg shakes his head. “I don’t even know what to say.”

 

“Then leave.”

 

John elbows Sherlock in the ribs, telling him to be quiet. 

 

“What did you need, Greg? Something with the case?” John points at the letter from “The Phantom” dangling in Greg’s hand.   
  


Greg lights up. “Yes!” He holds the letters out for John to take and examine. “The fictitious Phantom writes letters to manipulate, but he does so in a way that ensures his secrecy. This Phantom seems like he wants to be found.”   
  


Sherlock leans closer, the only indication he’s paying attention.

 

“What do you mean?” John asks.

 

“It’s as if these letters are clues, leading the intended reader to the Phantom.”

 

John looks to Sherlock to try to determine his opinion of Greg’s findings. He’s looking off into the distance, eyes unfocused, staring at a willow tree in the distance. His eyes narrow and he bolts from the bed. 

  
  


“Sherlock!” John yelps as Sherlock climbs over him to grab his shoes. He quickly shoves them on and races out the door with an “I’ll be back!”

 

John and Greg watch him go, mouths open. 

 

“What just happened?”

 

“I don’t know. You quickly learn to just go with what Sherlock says, despite how crazy it may sound in the moment.” John studies Greg. He looks nervous, something’s bothering him. “Greg, what did you want to tell me earlier? This morning when you came in, you said you were looking for me.”

 

Greg pales. “Oh. Yeah. That.” He leans against Sherlock’s desk and scratches the back of his neck. “It’s about Myc.”   
  


John smiles in encouragement, urging Greg to continue. 

 

Greg swallows. “I have so much going on in my life now. The girls keep me insanely busy. Rugby is intense. This is my last year of undergrad. I just can’t help but feel like this isn’t the right time.”   
  


John nods thoughtfully. “I’m not sure there’s ever a right time for anything.”

 

“John, I feel panicky all the time. Overwhelmed. I want to be near him, but at the same time I want to push him as far away as possible.” Greg pulls on the dry skin on his bottom lip with his teeth and stares down at his feet.

 

“You know what that sounds like…” John trails off in a sing-song voice. 

 

Greg’s head snaps up. “Don’t you dare say the “L” word.”

 

John holds his hands up in surrender. “I won’t say anything, and I won’t put words in your mouth, but maybe you need to let this unravel more before you jump to any conclusions about what it should and shouldn’t be.”   
  


“It doesn’t feel like it’s even unraveling, just becoming an increasingly tangled mess.”   
  


“Then wait for it to unravel.”

 

“When did you become so poetic?”

 

“Love: it makes a waxing poet out of us all.”

  
  


***

  
  


Sherlock walks to the willow, Moriarty nowhere in sight. He shudders in an attempt to shake off the weight that has shackled his heart since Moriarty latched unto his life like a leech, sucking strength and spewing disease. It’s been five years and he can’t break the habit, but he is breaking, and he does not know how long his soul’s scar tissue can withstand the constant ruptures. The fissures are ever widening. Eventually, he will be nothing. He can fade. Fade into oblivion. 

 

He’s tried before. Countless times. Countless overdoses. Each time becomes easier.  Soon a time will come when it will be so easy that it’ll be painless, or at least less painful; less painful than the constant torment of societal rejection, debilitating loneliness, and the unsettling turbulence of his mind. 

 

Or so Sherlock had thought. Until John. 

 

John entered his life with such intensity and heaved Sherlock’s world on end. Sherlock’s been trying to right it ever since, but to no avail. 

 

But maybe it doesn’t need to be righted. 

 

Maybe all this time everything was wrong, but now, with John, it’s all right.   
  


 

And God, does it feel right. 

 

Moriarty’s footsteps are ghostlike, quiet and eerie. Sherlock doesn’t hear him approach from behind until he feels words whispered in his ear, a harsh caress of hot breath. “Have you enjoyed solving it? I fear Johnny boy is slowing you down.”

 

“Why did you kill Carl Powers?”

 

Moriarty’s face gleams with a dark glee that leaves Sherlock unsettled and unstable.  “To show you, Sherlock.”    
  


“To show me what, exactly?” Sherlock takes a step back, attempting to look just as menacing, he towers over Moriarty in height, but Moriarty’s power over him closes the distance.    
  


“To show you how alike we are, Sherlock.”   
  


“We’re nothing alike.”

 

“In some ways, we aren’t. In most, we are.” Moriarty takes a step closer. The wind howls menacingly around them, creating a fluttering vortex of sweeping branches. “Aren’t you bored, Sherlock? Bored of this life, of the constant hum of pointless activity, of idiots controlling and manipulating, of existing in this world. Sherlock, we deserve  _ more _ . We’re meant to do more than  _ just exist _ amongst these  _ pedestrians _ .”

 

Sherlock feels the truth in Moriarty’s statements, at least in the uncontrollable burden of boredom, the need for stimulation, the need for distractions, the need for something, anything, to alleviate the chaos in his restless mind. But then he thinks of John. The peace John gives him, the clarity, the focus, the love. John, his one fixed point, his brilliant conductor of light.    
  


“Your services are no longer needed. I don’t need you anymore.” Sherlock proclaims with such sincerity, such authority that Moriarty takes a stumbled step back. 

 

“You’re pathetic,” he sneers, “look at your bleeding heart.  It’d be a shame if it bled out completely.  Or if it burned.” Moriarty’s wicked smile distorts his face. Sherlock catches a glimpse of the monstrosity beneath. Moriarty’s sinister smile chokes Sherlock’s dwindling hope.

 

As Moriarty leaves him with his haunted thoughts, the only thing Sherlock can think to do is run. Before, he would run to drugs, the sweet release able to soothe any and all of his troubles. Now, he runs to John. Runs to the hope and the love and the life that gushes from the beautiful soul that has captivated his mind. 

  
  
  
  



	8. All I Ask of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to post the rest of the chapters I have written. They haven't been beta-ed, but I don't see myself continuing to work on this story, so I thought I might as well finish it with what I have so far : ) I hope you enjoy!

**“Love me, that’s all I ask of you.”**

 

He pushes open the door to leave the dorms and walks directly into Mycroft.

  


“Mycroft! What are you doing here?”

  


“I was under the impression you would be happy to see me, but I can leave if I was incorrect in my assumptions.” He begins to turn around, but Greg grabs him by his forearm, dragging him against his chest.

  


“You bastard, I was just surprised is all. Don’t act so put out,” Greg pecks his lips. He hears John’s voice in his head, encouraging him to take a leap of faith. “I’m always happy to see you.”

  


Mycroft offers Greg his not frown not smile smirk and leans into his embrace. “I was wanting to take you out to dinner tonight at seven. You can come to my place afterward. I have some wonderful wine I’ve been meaning to try.”

  


Greg brushes his lips against Mycroft’s. “You could have told me over the phone. That way you wouldn’t have to come all this way.

  


“I wanted to see you.” Mycroft blushes.

  


Greg’s smile feels incandescent.

 

  
***  
  


John runs into Sherlock, literally, on his way to Sherlock’s room.

  


“Woah! Slow down, Sherlock!”

  


Sherlock wrenches his arm from John’s and pushes past him to his room. John stops the door with his foot before Sherlock can slam it.

  


“Sherlock! What’s wrong? I thought we had something to investi-”

  


“It’s pointless. Not worth it anymore. Now if you’ll please remove your foot.”

  


John stares incredulously at Sherlock, not believing Sherlock would so easily give up on a good lead. He was vibrating with excitement this morning when John left for classes, climbing on furniture and throwing his hands in every direction that John was nearly smacked no matter where he sat.

  


John doesn’t move his foot. Sherlock scowls and steps away from the door. He begins to frantically pace and John takes it as his cue to enter.

  


“It wasn’t a good idea. In fact, this isn’t a good idea.” Sherlock gestures wildly between John and him. John’s heart thuds louder in his chest, deafening Sherlock’s next words. He stares at him in confusion.

  


Sherlock scowls and starts to push John toward the door. At the last minute, John grips Sherlock’s forearms, holding him in place. They’re at a standstill each pressing against each other, equal forces and opposing directions.

  


John’s head is spinning, dizzying circles that try to understand Sherlock’s sudden rejection. “Sherlock, what happened? I thought we-”

  


“We what, John? Had something special? Please.” Sherlock scoffs but beneath the quivering mask, John can see a deep, unbridled fear. He loosens his grip on Sherlock’s forearms, pulling him into his chest. Sherlock lets out a surprised gasp as he collapses and curls into John.

  


Sherlock can’t help the strangled, relieved sigh that sounds too close to a sob as John rubs his back soothingly.

  


John pulls back just far enough to meet Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock tries to look away, but John gently grasps his chin, angling it toward him. “My life has been a living hell since I was born. My father is a manipulative, narcissistic bastard and he had me convinced that I would amount to nothing, that I was unworthy of love, of a life that everyone has a right to. With you-”

  


John pauses and sniffs harshly, his eyes darting away quickly before they focus back on Sherlock. “With you I...I don’t feel so lost. With you I don’t feel alone. I feel whole.”

  


“And it sounds terribly cheesy.” John laughs brokenly and tucks a wayward curl behind Sherlock’s ear. “But it’s true. I’ve never felt more alive than I do with you.”

  


“When we first met, you knew things about me that I thought I had hid so well. You see me, Sherlock. I feel seen.” He moves his hands from Sherlock’s face down his neck and to his upper arms, gripping to emphasize his next words. “And Sherlock, I can’t go unseen again.”

  


Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s, his breath stuttering out. “John, this is unwise. It’s not rational. It’s not safe-”

  


“I’ve never been known to be wise, and rational is boring. But safe, Sherlock? I know what not feeling safe feels like, and I feel like I am impenetrable at your side.”

  


Sherlock huffs out a laugh, he can feel John smile against his lips in response.

  


“Are you going to tell me what led you to such a terrifying conclusion?”

  


Sherlock rips himself from John and steps back, his hands in the air as a warning. “No, John. Because if I let you know, you would not stay. You can’t leave.”

  


“Sherlock, I’m not going anywhere. I-” John reaches for him again, but Sherlock steps back once more.

  


“You will. Once you know.”

  


“Sherlock-”

 

“I’m an addict, John. I take stimulants to orient myself, to function and thrive. My mind is a rushing current and the stimulants are a dam that causes the water to still, if even for just a moment.”

  


John stills. He quickly shakes off his shock. “I didn’t take you for a poet.”

  


Sherlock throws his hands in the air. “John! This is not a time for jokes you think are funny. I am addict John. I will crawl inside you, leech the light off you so my darkness can be ignited, and when you’re all used up, I’ll go find the next fix.”

  


John shakes his head adamantly. “I don’t believe it.”

  


Sherlock scoffs. “Of course you don’t, you romantic fool.”

  


John grabs Sherlock’s arms and pulls him close once more. Sherlock lets him and grabs his arms to steady himself. “I. Know. You. I’m not leaving. We will work through this. No more talk of light and dark, Sherlock. It’s us, just us.”

  


Sherlock reaches up to caress John’s face, his hand cupping his cheeks. “I think I might love you.”

  


John’s smile is iridescent his eyes shining with his reply: _I love you too._

  


***

  


Moriarty watches from the trees, a safe distance from them. He can’t be seen, but he can see them. Anger burns hot in his chest, bubbling and boiling, bursting and unbridled. Sherlock will curse the day he ever met John. He’ll learn who is important in his life. Who is vital and who is temporary.

  



	9. The Journal of Sherlock Holmes: The Examination of John Watson

The Journal of Sherlock Holmes: Examination of John Watson

Entry #3

 

Experiment: Saying _ I love you _

 

Data: The most terrifying thing I’ve experienced.

 

Conclusion: He makes me want to live. 


	10. Wandering Child

**“So be it! Now! Let it be war upon you both!”**

 

Sherlock wakes up to light kisses, peppered along his face. He squishes his nose against the tickling sensation resulting in a sleepy laugh from John.

  
  


“Good morning.”

  
  


“Morning.” Sherlock rumbles as he throws a pillow back over his face. 

  
  


“Sherlock, we need to get up. We both have class.”

  
  


“Don’t care. Comfy.”

  
  


Sherlock hears John move, but he isn’t quite sure what he’s doing until his hips are straddled and a thick hard on is pressed, more like wiggled, into his stirring groin.

  
  


“Are you awake now?”

  
  


“Maybe.”

  
  


John scoffs and grinds harder into Sherlock’s lap, resulting in a throaty moan that escapes before Sherlock can prevent it. “I’m going to suggest to Greg that we go on a double date with him and his boyfriend tonight.” John blurts out as he leans forward onto his elbows, inches away from Sherlock’s face. He rotates his hips suggestively, a poor attempt to keep Sherlock from latching too harshly onto his words. Well, a slightly poor attempt.

  
  


“What?” Sherlock tries to sit up, but John’s sturdy weight plus both of their erections sliding against each other prevents him from doing so.

  
  


“Yes, he as-”

  
  


“I’m sick. Can’t go.”

  
  


“Sherlock, I know you’re not sick.” John glares pointedly at him.

  
  


Sherlock’s eyes dart around the room, desperately searching for an excuse. “I have an exam to study for.”

  
  


“We both know you don’t study.”

  
  


“I’m having surgery.”

  
  


“Sherlock-”

  
  


“The case! We need to work on the case!” 

  
  


“Sherlock, please. For me?” John grinds once more into Sherlock’s lap and Sherlock is helpless. 

  
  


He reaches up and grabs John’s hips, guiding them down and against his once more. “How do you expect me to say no when you’re doing this?”

  
  


John’s cheeky smile is back. “I don’t.”

  
  


“You’re insufferable.”

  
  


***

  
  


The sunlight dances against Mycroft's bedroom walls. Dust floats mystically in the beams, twirling and falling gracefully. Both men lay prone on their backs, neither daring to catch the other's eye. Greg can feel Mycroft staring. He rolls his head sideways, only to catch Mycroft facing the ceiling. Greg exhales deeply and stretches his arms out. His hand collides slightly with Mycroft's. Prepared to jerk away, Greg is pleasantly surprised when thin fingers lace with his.

 

Greg skims his thumb over the back of Mycroft’s hand. Questions swirl in his mind like the sunlit dust, but they are too fragile to be spoken, so he lets them escape and float haphazardly throughout the room, never quite settling. 

 

Being near Mycroft is a terrible paradox.

 

Greg desperately wants to say something, something intelligent that will astound Mycroft, make him commend Greg. He wants to say something funny, so funny that Mycroft, who is usually quite stoic, erupts with laughter while his chest heaves and his eyes crinkle the freckles that dot his cheeks. He wants to say something lovely, so achingly sweet that it would give him a cavity.

 

But.

 

Greg also wants to be silent. Because he’s terrified. Because Mycroft is insanely intelligent. Because Mycroft is powerful. Because he’s intimidating. Because he is an enigma and Greg is lost without a cipher.

 

A sharp chirp breaks the deep silence. Greg reaches for his mobile and looks at Mycroft. “It’s John. I need to take this.” He ends his statement more like a question, forever uncertain.

 

Mycroft nods reassuringly. “Of course.”

 

Greg begins to rise out from under the duvet, but Mycroft’s grip around his hand tightens and pulls him back to bed, even closer to him than before. Greg looks up expectantly and Mycroft whispers so softly that Greg’s chest aches. “Can you answer it here?”

 

Greg smiles and shuffles closer to Mycroft, daring to lay his head on Mycroft’s bare chest. “Of course.”

 

 

***

  
  


“I don’t know why you thought this was a good idea.” 

  
  


“Myc, come on. It’ll be fun.” Greg opens the restaurant door, and Mycroft slides past him, locking eyes with someone he must know because he goes completely rigid. 

  
  


“Myc are you ok-”

  
  


“Mycroft! You - I should have known! How did I not know?” Sherlock runs his fingers through his hair, pulling on the ends in frustration.

  
  


“Sherlock, how do you know him?” Greg looks expectantly between the two men as they stare at each other, Sherlock with contempt, Mycroft with curiosity and what Greg suspects looks similar to fear. 

  
  


“Gregory, this is my brother. Sherlock.”

  
  


“No. Bloody. Way.” 

  
  


Sherlock gives Greg a withering look and grabs John’s arm. “I showed up. I put forth the effort. I’m done. Let’s go.”

  
  


John stays seated and Sherlock pulls harder.

  
  


“Sherlock, we’re not leaving.”

  
  


“Well, I am.” 

  
  


John pulls on Sherlock’s arm and Sherlock’s plops into his lap, flushing a deep scarlet. “Stay.”

  
  


“Fine,” he grumbles, crossing his arms like a petulant child. 

  
  


Greg slides into the booth across from Sherlock and John. Mycroft stands at the end of the table, scowling. “Gregory, I told you I did not want to do this. The fact that my brother is one half of the couple only strengthens my resolve. I will not have a “double date”, he spits out the words, “with my brother.”

  
  


“Myc, you promised.”

  
  


“Yes, but that was before.”

  
  


“Yes, please leave. In fact, Graham, you can leave too.”

  
  


“Sherlock!” John nudges him. 

  
  


“His name is Gregory.” Mycroft corrects sternly. 

  
  


Sherlock sneers and John pushes him off his lap resulting in a further sulk. Greg plops into his chair, beckoning Mycroft to do the same. He does, albeit more gracefully. 

  
  


“I’m John.” John reaches his hand out to Mycroft who takes it firmly and eyes him suspiciously.

  
  


“Mycroft.” Mycroft releases his hand. “So you’re the one who’s been letting my brother galavant crime scenes.”

  
  


John reddens and Sherlock immediately stands up, shoving the table against Mycroft and Greg. “No one “lets” me do it anything. Also,” he turns to glare at Greg, “this was to remain between us, Graham.”

  
  


“I could lose my position at the Yard for this! Plus, Mycroft has connections that I think could be of use.”

  
  


“I’m plenty aware of his connections.”

  
  


John tries to grab Sherlock’s arm to pull him back in his seat, people are staring and he doesn’t want to attract more attention if Sherlock decides to lunge at his brother. 

  
  


“Yes, Sherlock, I am helpful. In fact,” he pauses and looks at John, “has Sherlock told you he knows who the murderer is?”

  
  


John can feel the blood drain from his face, he bets Sherlock looks as pale. One look at him confirms it. “Sherlock, is that true?”

  
  


Sherlock is glaring daggers at Mycroft and that’s enough confirmation for him. “Bloody hell, Sherlock!” His hopes of not making a scene are extinguished as his anger builds.

  
  


“I was going to tell you.”

  
  


“When?”

  
  


“I don’t know!”

  
  


“Who is it, Sherlock?”

  
  


Sherlock pauses at this and stares at his shuffling feet. 

  
  


“Sherlock,” John warns. 

  
  


“His ex-drug dealer,” Mycroft supplies, “or is it current?”

  
  


John’s stomach drops. “Sherlock, what is going on?”

  
  


“I was going to tell you.”

  
  


“Tell me when? When it was convenient for you?”

  
  


“That he threatened you!”

  
  


John’s mind goes blank, he can’t find a proper response. He opens his mouth and closes it.

  
  


Sherlock, seeming satisfied with John’s response, or lack thereof, sits back in his seat. “He threatened you and your involvement with me. I was going to keep you away from the case as much as possible. To ensure your safety.”

  
  


“I don’t need your protection, Sherlock.”

  
  


Sherlock stares back at him. “You have it.”

  
  


John gently grabs Sherlock’s fidgeting hands between his calm ones. “And what about your safety ?”

  
  


“Irrelevant.”

  
  


“Not to me.”

  
  


Sherlock’s eyes are wide and vulnerable, looking at John with such confusion and adoration.

  
  


A throat clears. They jolt out of their conversation, forgetting they were not alone. Greg is smiling at them, almost smirking. Mycroft is watching John warily, eyes flickering to Sherlock as if analyzing deeply what just occurred. Knowing Sherlock, he probably is. 

  
  


“This is all nice, but we need a plan,” Mycroft concludes.

  
  


“What would you propose?” Greg nudges Mycroft’s arm in encouragement. 

  
  


“Bait to lure his dealer out and a snare to catch him in.” 

  
  


“Who’s going to be the bait.” John questions. The answer quickly dawns on him after he asks.

  
  



	11. Twisted Every Way

**“Do I risk my life to earn the chance to live?”**

  
  


“I can’t believe your brother is willing to use you as bait!” John frown deepens and he shoves his hand in his pockets.

  
  


“It doesn’t surprise me.”

  
  


“It’s ridiculous!”

  
  


Sherlock stops in front of his door and turns to face John, grabbing his shoulders firmly. “It’ll be fine.”

  
  


“You can’t know that.”

  
  


“It will.”

  
  


“I can’t lose you.”

  
  


Sherlock smiles and pecks John’s lips. “You won’t.”

  
  


John starts to counter Sherlock’s dangerous optimism, but Sherlock ignores him and throws open his door. He gasps loudly, the sound choked and sorrowful. John squeezes past him and before he can comfort Sherlock and ask him what was wrong, he sees her.

  
  


Redbeard’s long, thin body is dangling from the ceiling fan. The fan, lightly spinning, slowly twirls her body around in a dizzying circle. John flips off the switch and slides past Sherlock’s frozen form. He unties the rope dangling from one of the blades and cradles Redbeard’s body against him. He can feel Sherlock approach. Feel him breathing heavily, erratically against his neck. His shaky hand rubs gently down Redbeard’s back and reaches back up to scratch behind her ear, her favorite spot to be rubbed. There he finds a note, a ribbon tied too tightly around her neck with a small piece of paper. He struggles to untie it, his hands unwilling to cooperate.

 

John reaches up with his hand that’s closest to her face and gently unloops the bow. The letter falls into Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock holds it out, so John can read it.

  
  


_ I warned you ; ) you know where to find me. _

_ -M _

  
  


Sherlock growls, a sound lethal and raw. He crumples the note and his fist and spins toward the door, stalking toward the entrance.

  
  
  


“Sherlock!” John calls after him, but Sherlock is already out of the room and fleeing down the hall.

  
  


John, chest tight at their loss, lowers Redbeard onto her bed and gives her a soft kiss on her head. He pulls his phone from his pocket and types a quick message to Greg, and sprints out the door, to Sherlock.

  
  


_ Come to Sherlock’s room. Clean. Take care of Redbeard’s body. Call the police. Hurry. _


	12. Down Once More

**“So do you end your days with me, or do you send him to his grave?”**

  
  


“For Christ sake’s, Sherlock, don’t throw your life away for mine!” John fights harder against Sebastian, effectively kicking him in the shin. 

  
  


Moriarty scowls at him and then his face contorts into a wicked grin. “Sebastian, if you wouldn’t mind shutting him up.”

  
  


Sherlock’s heart drops, thinking the worst, as Sebastian aims at John’s right thigh and fires. John collapses in Sebastian’s arms, falling unceremoniously to the floor as Sebastian tosses him on the ground. 

  
  


“John!” Sherlock starts forward, but is halted by Sebastian as he aims his gun right back at John’s head. 

  
  


Moriarty tsks from behind him. “Just because when shot him once, doesn’t mean we won’t again. Next time we’ll decorate his skull with more pretty holes. Behave, Sherlock.”

  
  


John grimaces and places his hand over the wound, attempting to staunch the flow of blood. He looks up at Sherlock, quickly trying to mask the extreme discomfort, but Sherlock sees it before John has a chance to hide it. John nods stiffly at him, informing him that he is alright, but Sherlock wonders for how much longer. 

  
  


“What do you want from me? What can I do that will keep John alive?”

  
  


Moriarty grins and nods toward Sebastian who steps harshly on John’s legs, stomping on his hands and pushing onto his seeping wound. John cries out in sharp, stuttered gasps. 

  
  


“Stop it!” Sherlock screams, his voice cracking. 

  
  


“Now, Sherlock. Screaming will only make it worse.” He nods to Sebastian who steps harshly on John’s leg once more. 

  
  


“What do you want? I’ll do anything, Stop hurting him!”

  
  


John cries out as Sebastian’s boot collides once more. “Sherlock, stop! You don’t know what he’s -” he lets loose a choked sob.

  
  


“What do you want?” Sherlock growls, ignoring John’s pleading look.

  
  


“Unfortunately, John won’t survive either way, but your cooperation will determine how painful is death will be.”

  
  


“Let. Him. Go.” Sherlock snarls.

  
  


“Sherlock,” Sherlock turns to John who smiles weakly at him. “If I’m going to die, either way, save yourself. I can handle a little pain.”

  
  


Sherlock’s heart thumps erratically in his chest. He can’t lose John. He won’t. He desperately searches for a way out of this, a way to save John, even if it means sacrificing himself, but Moriarty's gaze is relentless and unforgiving; but, as Sebastian grinds his heel into John’s thigh once more, a red light lands in the middle of Moriarty’s chest. 

  
  


Sherlock lets out a chuckle, more pained than happy, wishing it had come sooner. “I think you might want to reconsider your options.”

  
  


Moriarty follows Sherlock’s gaze as Sherlock hears two shots hit their targets. He quickly rushes toward John who, due to Sebastian’s stance over him, was now covered by Sebastian’s limp body. He drags Sebastian off of him and quickly leans over the wound. It’s gaping weeping blood, lots of it. Sherlock frantically looking up at John as sirens fill the night around them. “I thought I was going to lose you.” He chokes. 

 

John smiles and cups Sherlock’s cheek with his bloodied hand, “You can’t get rid of me that quickly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this journey. I apologize for any spelling/grammatical errors for the last few chapters. I also apologize that my heart kind of just left this story. The last few chapters are all rough drafts, so I apologize if they are shit : ) 
> 
> Much love,   
> Bay <3


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